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POEMS 


BY    S.    G.    GOODRICH 


NEW-YORK: 
G.    P.    PUTNAM,    155    BROADWAY. 

MDCCCLI. 


LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
DAVIS 


:n  ths  Clerk  R  Office  of  the 

restrict  Court  of  the 
District  of  Massachusetts. 


JOHN  F   TRO\V, 

PRINTER     AND     STEREOTYPER 

40.51,  &  53.  Ann  Street. 


ILLUSTRATIONS, 


ILLUSTRATIONS.  DRAWN  BY 

1.  Frontispiece Billings 

2.  Vignette Croome 

3.  Vignette Billings 

4.  The  Departure  of  the  Fairies Billings 

5.  Voyage  of  the  Fairies Billings 

6.  The  Fairies'  Search Billings 

7.  The  Fairy  Dance Billings 

8.  Indians'  discovery  of  the  Humming  Birds Billings 

9.  Lake  Superior Billings 

10.  The  Leaf Billings 

11.  The  Bubble  Chase Billings 

12.  Dream  o    Life Harvey 

13.  The  Surf  Sprite Billings 

14.  Vignette Billings 

15.  The  First  Frost  of  Autumn Billings 


ENGRAVED  BY  PAGE 

. .  Lossing  &  Barrett. .  2 

A  nderson 5 

. .  Hartvvell 7 

. .  Bobbett  &  Edmonds.  9 

..  Bobbett  &  Edmonds.  12 

. .  Hartwell 14 

..  Lossing  &  Barrett..  15 

. .  Lossing  &  Barrett. .  16 

..  Hartwell 17 

..  Marsh 20 

..  Hartwell 23 

..  Hartwell 27 

. .  Brown 30 

. .  Brown 36 

.  Nichols...               .  37 


VI  LIST   OF   ILLUSTRATIONS. 

ILLUSTRATIONS.  DRAWN  BY  ENGRAVED  BY             PAGE 

16.  The  Sea  Bird Billings Brown 41 

17.  Vignette Billings Brown 45 

18.  The  King  of  Terrors Billings Marsh 46 

19.  The  Rainbow  Bridge Billings Bobbett  &  Edmonds.    49 

20.  The  Rival  Bubbles Billings Marsh 51 

21.  The  Mississippi Billings Bobbett  &  Edmonds.     57 

22.  Banks  of  the  Mississipp: Billings Lossing  &  Barrett . .     58 

23.  The  Indian  Lovers Chapman Adams 62 

24.  Vignette Billings Lossing  &  Barrett. .     C4 

25.  The  Two  Windmills Billings Hartwell G5 

26.  The  Gipsy's  Prayer Billings Hartwell 71 

27.  The  Robin > Chapman Adams 74 

28.  Burial  at  Sea Billings Richardson '7 

29   The  Dream  of  Youth Billings Hartwell 79 

30.  The  Old  Oak Billings Brown 85 

3.1.  To  a  Wild  Violet  in  March Croome Anderson 90 

32.  The  Rose Cheney Fairchild 1)4 

33.  The  Maniac Billings Brown 96 

34.  The  Two  Shades Billings Marsh 99 

35.  The  Outcast Billings Hartwell 113 

36.  "  My  Native  Hills,"  &c Billings Andrews 117 

37.  The  Muonlit  Prairie Billing? Andrews 131 

38.  The  Farewell Billings Andrews 135 

39.  The  Expulsion  from  Eden Billings Marsh 139 

40.  Vignette Croome Anderson 144 

Henry  J.  Crate,  Pressman. 


CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

Birth-night  of  the  Humming  Birds,  9 

Lake  Superior,              ...  17 

The  Leaf,              ....  .      '  20 

The  Bubble  Chase,      ...  23 

A  Dream  of  Life.               ...  .27 

The  Surf  Sprite,          .             .  30 

The  First  Frost  of  Autumn.          .  .37 

The  Sea  Bird,              ...  41 

The  King  of  Terrors,        .  46 

The  Rainbow  Bridge,               .  49 

The  Rival  Babbles,            .                         .  ,         51 

Good  Night.     .......  55 

The  Mississippi,    .......         57 

The  Two  Windmills                .             .             .     ,        .  65 

The  Ideal  and  the  Actual,              ...  .68 


Vlll  CONTENTS 

P.UJli 

The  Golden  Dream,     .            .            .             .             .             .  70 

The  Gipsy's  Prayer,          ...  .71 

Inscription  for  a  Rural  Cemetery.         .             .            .             .  73 

Song :  the  Robin,              ...  74 

Thoughts  at  Sea,         ......  75 

A  Burial  at  Sea,  ......         77 

The  Dream  of  Youth,              ....  79 

Remembrance,       .            .            .            .             .             .  .82 

The  Old  Oak,              .....  85 

To  a  Wild  Violet  in  March,           .  90 

Illusions,           .......  92 

The  Rose  :  to  Ellen,          ......         94 

The  Maniac,                 ......  96 

The  Two  Shades,  ......         99 

The  Teacher's  Lesson,            .            .            .             .             .  104 

Perennials,             .             .             .             .             .             .  .107 

To  a  Lady  who  had  been  Singing,        .             .             .             .  108 

The  Broken  Heart,            .             .            .            .             .  .110 

The  Star  of  the  West,              .            .            .             .             .  ill 

The  Outcast,         .            .            .            .             .             .  .113 

Good  and  Evil,             .            .            .             .             .            .  139 

The  Mountain  Stream,       .  142 


96irtlnrigljt  nf  tjj?  Stemming  Uirk 


'LL  tell  you  a  Fairy  Tale  that 's  new  : 
How  the  merry  Elves  o'er  the  ocean  flew 
From  the  Emerald  isle  to  this  far-off  shore, 
As  they  were  wont  in  the  days  of  yore; 
1 


10  BIKTHNIGHT   OF   THE    HUMMING   BIRDS. 

And  played  their  pranks  one  moonlit  night, 
Where  the  zephyrs  alone  could  see  the  sight. 


II. 

Ere  the  Old  world  yet  had  found  the  New, 
The  fairies  oft  in  their  frolics  flew 
To  the  fragrant  isles  of  the  Caribbee  — 
Bright  bosom-gems  of  a  golden  sea. 
Too  dark  was  the  film  of  the  Indian's  eye, 
These  gossamer  sprites  to  suspect  or  spy,  — 
So  they  danced  'mid  the  spicy  groves  unseen, 
And  mad  were  their  merry  pranks,  I  ween ; 
For  the  fairies,  like  other  discreet  little  elves, 
Are  freest  and  fondest  when  all  by  themselves. 
No  thought  had  they  that  in  after  time, 
The  Muse  would  echo  their  deeds  in  rhyme ; 
So  gayly  doffing  light  stocking  and  shoe, 
They  tripped  o'er  the  meadow  all  dappled  in  dew. 


III. 

I  could  tell,  if  I  would,  some  right  merry  tales, 
Of  unslippered  fairies  that  danced  in  the  vales— 
But  the  lovers  of  scandal  I  leave  in  the  lurch  — 
And,  beside,  these  elves  don't  belong  to  the  church. 
If  they  danced — be  it  known — 'twas  not  in  the  clime 
Of  your  Mathers  and  Hookers,  where  laughter  was  crime ; 


BIRTHNIGHT   OF  THE   HUMMING  BIRDS.  11 

Where  sentinel  virtue  kept  guard  o'er  the  lip, 
Though  witchcraft  stole  into  the  heart  by  a  slip ! 
Oh  no !  'twas  the  land  of  the  fruit  and  the  flower  — 
Where  Summer  and  Spring  both  dwelt  in  one  bower— 
Where  one  hung  the  citron,  all  ripe  from  the  bough, 
And  the  other  with  blossoms  encircled  her  brow  ; 
Where  the  mountains  embosomed  rich  tissues  of  gold, 
And  the  rivers  o'er  rubies  and  emeralds  rolled. 
It  was  there,  where  the  seasons  came  only  to  bless, 
And  the  fashions  of  Eden  still  lingered,  in  dress, 
That  these  gay  little  fairies  were  wont,  as  I  say, 
To  steal  in  their  merriest  gambols  away. 
But  dropping  the  curtain  o'er  frolic  and  fun, 
Too  good  to  be  told,  or  too  bad  to  be  done, 
I  give  you  a  legend  from  Fancy's  own  sketch, 
Though  I  warn  you  he's  given  to  fibbing — the  wretch! 
Yet  I  learn  by  the  legends  of  breezes  and  brooks, 
'Tis  as  true  as  the  fairy  tales  told  in  the  books. 


IV. 

One  night,  when  the  moon  shone  fair  on  the  main, 
Choice  spirits  were  gathered  from  meadow  and  plain  — 
And  lightly  embarking  from  Erin's  bold  cliffs, 
They  slid  o'er  the  wave  in  their  moonbeam  skiffs. 
A  ray  for  a  rudder  —  a  thought  for  a  sail — 
Swift,  swift  was  each  bark  as  the  wing  of  the  gale. 


12 


BIRTHRIGHT   OF  THE   HUMMING  BIRDS. 


Yet  long  were  the  tale, 

Should  I  linger  to  say 
What  gambol  and  frolic 

Enlivened  the  way ; 
How  they  flirted  with  bubbles 

That  danced  on  the  wave, 
Or  listened  to  mermaids 

That  sang  from  the  cave  ; 
Or  slid  with  the  moonbeams 

Down  deep  to  the  grove 
Of  coral,  where  mullet 

And  goldfish  rove : 
How  there,  in  long  vistas 

Of  silence  and  sleep, 
They  waltzed,  as  if  mocking 

The  death  of  the  deep : 
How,  oft,  where  the  wreck 

Lay  scattered  and  torn, 
They  peeped  in  the  skull, 

All  ghastly  and  lorn  ; 
Or  deep,  'mid  wild  rocks, 

Quizzed  the  goggling  shark, 
And  mouthed  at  the  sea-wolf, 

So  solemn  and  stark  ; 
Each  seeming  to  think 

That  the  earth  and  the  sea 
Were  made  but  for  fairies, 

For  gambol  and  glee ! 


BIRTHNIGHT   OF   THE    HUMMING   BIRDS.  18 

V. 

Enough,  that  at  last  they  came  to  the  Isle, 
Where  moonlight  and  fragrance  were  rivals  the  while. 
Not  yet  had  those  vessels  from  Palos  been  here, 
To  turn  the  bright  gem  to  the  blood-mingled  tear. 
Oh  no !  still  blissful  and  peaceful  the  land, 
And  the  merry  elves  flew  from  the  sea  to  the  strand. 
Right  happy  and  joyous  seemed  now  the  fond  crew, 
As  they  tripped  'mid  the  orange  groves  flashing  in  dew, 
For  they  were  to  hold  a  revel  that  night, 
A  gay  fancy  ball,  and  each  to  be  dight 
In  the  gem  or  the  flower  that  fancy  might  choose, 
From  mountain  or  vale,  for  its  fragrance  or  hues. 


VI. 

Away  sped  the  maskers  like  arrows  of  light 
To  gather  their  gear  for  the  revel  bright. 
To  the  dazzling  peaks  of  far-off  Peru, 
In  emulous  speed  some  sportively  flew, 
And  deep  in  the  mine,  or  'mid  glaciers  on.  high, 
For  ruby  and  sapphire  searched  heedful  and  sly. 
For  diamonds  rare  that  gleam  in  the  bed 
Of  Brazilian  streams,  some  merrily  sped, 
While  others  for  topaz  and  emerald  stray, 
'Mid  the  cradle  cliffs  of  the  Paraguay, 


1* 


14 


BIRTHNiaHT   OF  THE   HUMMING   BIRDS. 


VII. 

As  these  are  gathering  the  rarest  ol  gems, 
Others  are  plucking  the  rarest  of  stems. 
They  range  wild  dells  where  the  zephyr  alone, 
To  the  blushing  blossoms  before  was  known ; 
Through  forests  they  fly,  whose  branches  are  hung 
By  creeping  plants,  with  fair  flowerets  strung, 
Where  temples  of  nature  with  arches  of  bloom, 
Are  lit  by  the  moonlight,  and  faint  with  perfume. 
They  stray  where  the  mangrove  and  clematis  twine, 
Where  azalia  and  laurel  in  rivalry  shine ; 
Where,  tall  as  the  oak,  the  passion-tree  glows, 
And  jasmine  is  blent  with  rhodora  and  rose. 
O'er  blooming  savannas  and  meadows  of  light, 
'Mid  regions  of  summer  they  sweep  in  their  flight, 


BIRTHNIGHT   OF   THE   HUMMING   BIRDS.  15 

And  gathering  the  fairest,  they  speed  to  their  bower, 
Each  one  with  his  favorite  brilliant  or  flower. 

VIII. 

The  hour  is  come,  and  the  fairies  are  seen 
In  their  plunder  arrayed  on  the  moonlit  green.. 
The  music  is  breathed — 'tis  a  soft  strain  of  pleasure, 
And  the  light  giddy  throng  whirl  into  the  measure. 


'Twas  a  joyous  dance,  and  the  dresses  were  bright, 

Such  as  never  were  known  till  that  famous  night ; 

For  the  gems  and  the  flowers  that  shone  in  the  scene, 

O'ermatched  the  regalia  of  princess  and  queen. 

No  gaudy  slave  to  a  fair  one's  brow 

Was  the  rose,  or  the  ruby,  or  emerald  now, 

But  lighted  with  souls  by  the  playful  elves, 

The  brilliants  and  blossoms  seemed  dancing  themselves. 

IX. 

Of  all  that  did  chance,  'twere  a  long  tale  to  tell, 
Of  the  dresses  and  waltzes,  and  who  was  the  belle ; 


16  BIRTHNIGHT   OF   THE   HUMMING   BIRDS. 

But  each  was  so  happy,  and  all  were  so  fair, 

That  night  stole  away  and  the  dawn  caught  them  there ! 

Such  a  scampering  never  before  was  seen, 

As  the  fairies'  flight  on  that  island  green. 

They  rushed  -to  the  bay  with  twinkling  feet, 

But  vain  was  their  haste,  for  the  moonlight  fleet 

Had  passed  with  the  dawn,  and  never  again 

Were  those  fairies  permitted  to  traverse  the  main. 

But  'mid  the  groves,  when  the  sun  was  high, 

The  Indian  marked  with  a  worshipping  eye, 

The  HUMMING  BIRDS,  all  unknown  before, 

Glancing  like  thoughts  from  flower  to  flower, 

And  seeming  as  if  earth's  loveliest  things, 

The  brilliants  and  blossoms,  had  taken  wings : 

And  Fancy  hath  whispered  in  numbers  light, 

That  these  are  the  fairies  who  danced  that  night, 

And  linger  yet  in  the  garb  they  wore, 

Content  in  our  clime  and  more  blest  than  before ! 


ATHER  of  Lakes !  thy  waters  bend, 
Beyond  the  eagle's  utmost  view, 

When,  throned  in  heaven,  he  sees  thee  send 
Back  to  the  sky  its  world  of  blue. 


18  LAKE   SUPERIOR. 

Boundless  and  deep  the  forests  weave 
Their  twilight  shade  thy  borders  o'er, 

And  threatening  cliffs,  like  giants,  heave 
Their  rugged  forms  along  thy  shore. 

NOT  can  the  light  canoes,  that  glide 
Across  thy  breast  like  things  of  air, 

Chase  from  thy  lone  and  level  tide, 
The  spell  of  stillness  deepening  there. 

Yet  round  this  waste  of  wood  and  wave, 
Unheard,  unseen,  a  spirit  lives, 

That,  breathing  o'er  each  rock  and  cave. 
To  all,  a  wild,  strange  aspect  gives. 

The  thunder-riven  oak,  that  flings 
Its  grisly  arms  athwart  the  sky, 

A  sudden,  startling  image  brings 
To  the  lone  traveller's  kindled  eye. 

The  gnarled  and  braided  boughs  that  show 
Their  dim  forms  in  the  forest  shade, 

Like  wrestling  serpents  seem,  and  throw 
Fantastic  horrors  through  the  glade. 

The  very  echoes  round  this  shore, 
Have  caught  a  strange  and  gibbering  tone. 

For  they  have  told  the  war-whoop  o'er, 
Till  the  wild  chorus  is  their  own. 


LAKE    SUPERIOR.  19 

Wave  of  the  wilderness,  adieu  — 
Adieu,  ye  rocks,  ye  wilds,  ye  woods ! 

Koll  on,  thou  Element  of  blue, 
And  fill  these  awful  solitudes ! 

Thou  hast  no  tale  to  tell  of  man. 

God  is  thy  theme.     Ye  sounding  caves, 
Whisper  of  Him,  whose  mighty  plan, 

Deems  as  a  bubble  all  your  waves ! 


Ifilf. 


IT  came  with  spring's  soft  sun  and  showers, 
Mid  bursting  buds  and  blushing  flowers  ; 
It  flourished  on  the  same  light  stem, 
It  drank  the  same  clear  dews  with  them. 
The  crimson  tints  of  summer  morn 
That  gilded  one,  did  each  adorn  : 
The  breeze  that  whispered  light  and  brief 
To  bud  or  blossom,  kissed  the  leaf ; 
When  o'er  the  leaf  the  tempest  flew, 
The  bud  and  blossom  trembled  too. 


THE    LEAF.  21 

But  its  companions  passed  away, 
And  left  the  leaf  to  lone  decay. 
The  gentle  gales  of  spring  went  by  : 
The  fruits  and  flowers  of  summer  die. 
The  autumn  winds  swept  o'er  the  hill, 
And  winter's  breath  came  cold  and  chilL 
The  leaf  now  yielded  to  the  blast, 
And  on  the  rushing  stream  was  cast. 
Far,  far  it  glided  to  the  sea, 
And  whirled  and  eddied  wearily, 
Till  suddenly  it  sank  to  rest, 
And  slumbered  in  the  ocean's  breast 


Thus  life  begins — its  morning  hours, 
Bright  as  the  birthday  of  the  flowers — 
Thus  passes  like  the  leaves  away, 
As  withered  and  as  lost  as  they. 
Beneath  the  parent  roof  we  meet 
In  joyous  groups,  and  gayly  greet 
The  golden  beams  of  love  and  light, 
That  dawn  upon  the  youthful  sight. 
But  soon  we  part,  and  one  by  one, 
Like  leaves  and  flowers,  the  group  is  gone. 
One  gentle  spirit  seeks  the  tomb, 
His  brow  yet  fresh  with  childhood's  bloom : 
Another  treads  the  paths  of  fame, 
And  barters  peace  to  win  a  name. 

2 


22  THE    LEAF. 

Another  still,  tempts  fortune's  wave, 
And  seeking  wealth,  secures  a  grave. 
The  last,  grasps  yet  the  brittle  thread  : 
Though  friends  are  gone  and  joy  is  dead  — 
Still  dares  the  dark  and  fretful  tide, 
And  clutches  at  its  power  and  pride  — 
Till  suddenly  the  waters  sever, 
And  like  the  leaf,  he  sinks  for  ever ! 


WAS  morn,  and,  wending  on  its  way, 
Beside  my  path  a  stream  was  playing ; 

And  down  its  banks,  in  humor  gay, 
A  thoughtless  boy  was  idly  straying. 


24  THE   BUBBLE   CHASE. 

Light  as  the  breeze  they  onward  flew — 
That  joyous  youth  and  laughing  tide, 

And  seemed  each  other's  course  to  woo, 
For  long  they  bounded  side  by  side. 

And  now  the  dimpling  water  staid, 
And  glassed  its  ripples  in  a  nook ; 

And  on  its  breast  a  bubble  played, 
Which  won  the  boy's  admiring  look. 

He  bent  him  o'er  the  river's  brim, 
And  on  the  radiant  vision  gazed ; 

For  lovelier  still  it  seemed  to  him, 
That  in  its  breast  his  imaged  blazed. 

With  beating  heart  and  trembling  finger, 
He  stooped  the  wondrous  gem  to  clasp, 

But,  spellbound,  seemed  a  while  to  linger, 
Ere  yet  he  made  th'  adventurous  grasp. 

And  still  a  while  the  glittering  toy, 
Coquettish,  seemed  to  shun  the  snare, 

And  then  more  eager  grew  the  boy, 
And  followed  with  impetuous  air. 

Bound  and  around,  with  heedful  eyes, 
He  chased  it  o'er  the  wavy  river : 

He  marked  his  time  and  seized  his  prize, 
But  in  his  hand  it  burst  for  ever  ! 


THE    BUBBLE   CHASE.  25 

Upon  the  river's  marge  lie  sate, 

The  tears  adown  his  young  cheek  gushing ; 
And  long, — his  heart  disconsolate — 

He  heeded  not  the  river's  rushing. 

But  tears  will  cease.     And  now  the  boy 
Once  more  looked  forth  upon  the  stream : 

7Twas  morning  still,  and  lo  1  a  toy, 
Bright  as  the  last  one,  in  the  beam ! 

He  rose< — pursued — the  bubble  caught; 

It  burst — he  sighed — then  others  chased; 
And  as  I  parted,  still  he  sought 

New  bubbles  in  their  downward  haste. 

My  onward  path  I  still  pursued, 

Till  the  high  noontide  sun  was  o1er  me. 

And  now,  though  changed  in  form  and  mood, 
That  Youth  and  river  seemed  before  me. 

The  deepened  stream  more  proudly  swept, 
Though  chafed  by  many  a  vessel's  prow ; 

The  Youth  in  manhood's  vigor  stept, 
But  care  was  chiselled  on  his  brow. 

Still  on  the  stream  he  kept  his  eye, 
And  wooed  the  bubbles  to  the  shore, 

And  snatched  them,  as  they  circled  by, 
Though  bursting  as  they  burst  before. 

2* 


26  THE   BUBBLE   CHASE. 

Once  more  we  parted.  Yet  again 

We  met — though  now  'twas  evening  dim 

Onward  the  waters  rushed  amain, 
And  vanished  o'er  a  cataract's  brim. 

Though  swift  and  dark  the  raging  surge, 
The  Bubble-Chaser  still  was  there ; 

And,  bending  o'er  the  dizzy  verge, 
Clutched  at  the  gaudy  things  of  air. 

With  staff  in  hand  and  tottering  knee, 
Upon  the  slippery  brink  he  stood, 

And  watched,  with  doting  ecstasy, 

Each  wreath  of  foam  that  rode  the  flood. 

"  One  bubble  more  !"  I  heard  him  call, 
And  saw  his  trembling  fingers  play : 

He  snatched,  and  down  the  roaring  fall, 
With  the  lost  bubble,  passed  away ! 


51  Stem  nf  life. 


WHEN  I  was  young— 

long,  long  ago— 
I  dreamed  myself 

among  the  flowers; 
And  fancy  drew 

the  picture  so, 
They  seemed  like 

Fairies  in  their 
bowers. 


28  A  DREAM  OF  LIFE. 

The  rose  was  still  a  rose,  you  know  — • 
But  yet  a  maid.     What  could  I  do  ? 

You  surely  would  not  have  me  go, 
When  rosy  maidens  seem  to  woo  ? 

My  heart  was  gay,  and  'mid  the  throng 

I  sported  for  an  hour  or  two ; 
We  danced  the  flowery  paths  along, 

And  did  as  youthful  lovers  do. 

But  sports  must  cease,  and  so  I  dreamed 
To  part  with  these,  my  fairy  flowers- — 

But  oh,  how  very  hard  it  seemed 

To  say  good-by'mid  such  sweet  bowers  ! 

And  one  fair  Maid  of  modest  air 
Gazed  on  me  with  her  eye  of  blue  ; 

I  saw  the  tear-drop  gathering  there — 
How  could  I  say  to  her,  Adieu  ! 

I  fondly  gave  my  hand  and  heart, 

And  we  were  wed.     Bright  hour  of  youth ! 

How  little  did  I  think  to  part 

With  my  sweet  bride,  whose  name  was  Truth ! 

But  time  passed  on,  and  Truth  grew  gray, 
And  chided,  though  with  gentlest  art : 

I  loved  her,  though  I  went  astray, 
And  almost  broke  her  faithful  heart. 


A  DEE  AM   OF  LIFE.  29 

And  then  I  left  her,  and  in  tears  — 

These  could  not  move  my  hardened  breast ! 

I  wandered,  and  for  weary  years 
I  sought  for  bliss,  but  found  no  rest. 

I  sought — yet  ever  sought  in  vain  — 
To  find  the  peace,  the  joy  of  youth : 

At  last,  I  turned  me  back  again, 

And  found  them  with  my  faithful  Truth. 


Ittrf  Iprite. 


IN  the  far  off  sea  there  is  many  a  sprite, 
Who  rests  by  day,  but  awakes  at  night. 
In  hidden  caves  where  monsters  creep, 
When  the  sun  is  high,  these  spectres  sleep  : 
From  the  glance  of  noon,  they  shrink  with  dread, 
And  hide  'mid  the  bones  of  the  ghastly  dead. 


THE    SURF   SPRITE.  31 

Where  the  surf  is  hushed,  and  the  light  is  dull, 
In  the  hollow  tube  and  the  whitened  skull, 
They  crouch  in  fear  or  in  whispers  wail, 
For  the  lingering  night,  and  the  coming  gale. 
But  at  eventide,  when  the  shore  is  dim, ' 
And  bubbling  wreaths  with  the  billows  swim, 
They  rise  on  the  wing  of  the  freshened  breeze, 
And  flit  with  the  wind  o'er  the  rolling  seas. 

II. 

At  summer  eve,  as  I  sat  on  the  cliff, 
I  marked  a  shape  like  a  dusky  skiff, 
That  skimmed  the  brine,  toward  the  rocky  shore  — 
I  heard  a  voice  in  the  surge's  roar— 
I  saw  a  form  in  the  flashing  spray, 
And  white  arms  beckoned  me  away. 
Away  o'er  the  tide  we  went  together, 
Through  shade  and  mist  and  stormy  weather — 
Away,  away,  o'er  the  lonely  water, 

On  wings  of  thought  like  shadows  we  flew, 
Nor  paused  'mid  scenes  of  wreck  and  slaughter, 

That  came  from  the  blackened  waves  to  view. 
The  staggering  ship  to  the  gale  we  left, 

The  drifting  corse  and  the  vacant  boat ; 
The  ghastly  swimmer  all  hope  bereft  — 

We  left  them  there  on  the  sea  to  float ! 
Through  mist  and  shade  and  stormy  weather, 

That  night  we  went  to  the  icy  Pole, 


32  THE    SURF   SPRITE. 

And  there  on  the  rocks  we  stood  together, 

And  saw  the  ocean  before  us  roll. 
No  moon  shone  down  on  the  hermit  sea, 

No  cheering  beacon  illumed  the  shore, 
No  ship  on  the  water,  no  light  on  the  lea, 

No  sound  in  the  ear  but  the  billow's  roar ! 
But  the  wave  was  bright,  as  if  lit  with  pearls, 

And  fearful  things  on  its  bosom  played  ; 
Huge  crakens  circled  in  foamy  whirls, 

As  if  the  deep  for  their  sport  was  made, 
And  mighty  whales  through  the  crystal  dashed, 

And  upward  sent  the  far  glittering  spray, 
Till  the  darkened  sky  with  the  radiance  flashed, 

And  pictured  in  glory  the  wild  array.-" 


in. 

Hast  thou  seen  the  deep  in  the  moonlight  beam, 
Its  wave  like  a  maiden's  bosom  swelling  ? 

Hast  thou  seen  the  stars  in  the  water's  gleam, 
As  if  its  depths  were  their  holy  dwelling  ? 

"We  met  more  beautiful  scenes  that  night, 
As  we  slid  along  in  our  spirit-car, 


*  The  Laplanders  are  said  to  entertain  the  idea  that  the  corus 
cations  of  the  Aurora  Borealis,  are  occasioned  by  the  sports  of  the 
fishes  in  the  polar  seas. 


THE   SURF   SPRITE.  33 

For  we  crossed  the  South  Sea,  and,  ere  the  light, 

We  doubled  Cape  Horn  on  a  shooting  star. 
In  our  way  we  stooped  o'er  a  moonlit  isle, 

Which  the  fairies  had  built  in  the  lonely  sea, 
And  the  Surf  Sprite's  brow  was  bent  with  a  smile, 

As  we  gazed  through  the  mist  on  their  revelry. 
The  ripples  that  swept  to  the  pebbly  shore, 

O'er  shells  of  purple  in  wantonness  played, 
And  the  whispering  zephyrs  sweet  odors  bore, 

From  roses  that  bloomed  amid  silence  and  shade. 
In  winding  grottos,  with  gems  all  bright, 

Soft  music  trembled  from  harps  unseen, 
And  fair  forms  glided  on  wings  of  light, 

'Mid  forests  of  fragrance,  and  valleys  of  green. 
There  were  voices  of  gladness  the  heart  to  beguile, 

And  glances  of  beauty  too  fond  to  be  true — • 
For  the  Surf  Sprite  shrieked,  and  the  Fairy  Isle, 

By  the  breath  of  the  tempest  was  swept  from  our 
view. 


IV. 

Then  the  howling  gale  o'er  the  billows  rushed, 
And  trampled  the  sea  in  its  march  of  wrath  ; 

From  stooping  clouds  the  red  lightnings  gushed, 
And  thunders  moved  in  their  blazing  path. 

'Twas  a  fearful  night,  but  my  shadowy  guide 
Had  a  voice  of  glee  as  we  rode  on  the  gale, 

3 


34  THE   SURF   SPEITE. 

For  we  saw  afar  a  ship  on  the  tide, 

With  a  bounding  course  and  a  fearless  sail. 
In  darkness  it  came,  like  a  storm-sent  bird, 

But  another  ship  it  met  on  the  wave : 
A  shock — a  shout' — but  no  more  we  heard, 

For  they  both  went  down  to  their  ocean-grave  ! 
We  paused  on  the  misty  wing  of  the  storm, 

As  a  ruddy  flash  lit  the  face  of  the  deep, 
And  far  in  its  bosom  full  many  a  form 

Was  swinging  down  to  its  silent  sleep. 
Another  flash  !  and  they  seemed  to  rest, 

In  scattered  groups,  on  the  floor  of  the  tide  : 
The  lover  and  loved,  they  were  breast  to  breast, 

The  mother  and  babe,  they  were  side  by  side. 
The  leaping  waves  clapped  their  hands  in  joy, 

And  gleams  of  gold  with  the  waters  flowed, 
But  the  peace  of  the  sleepers  knew  no  alloy, 

For  all  was  hushed  in  their  lone  abode  ! 

v. 

On,  on,  like  midnight  visions,  we  passed, 

The  storm  above,  and  the  surge  below, 
And  shrieking  forms  swept  by  on  the  blast, 

Like  demons  speeding  on  errands  of  woe. 
My  spirit  sank,  for  aloft  in  the  cloud, 

A  Star-set  Flag  on  the  whirlwind  flew, 
And  I  knew  that  the  billow  must  be  the  shroud 

Of  the  noble  ship  and  her  gallant  crew. 


THE  SURF  SPRITE.  35 

Her  side  was  striped  with  a  belt  of  white, 

And  a  dozen  guns  from  each  battery  frowned, 
But  the  lightning  came  in  a  sheet  of  flame, * 

And  the  towering  sails  in  its  folds  were  wound. 
Vain,  vain  was  the  shout,  that  in  battle  rout, 

Had  rung  as  a  knell  in  the  ear  of  the  foe, 
For  the  bursting  deck  was  heaved  from  the  wreck, 

And  the  sky  was  bathed  in  the  awful  glow  ! 
The  ocean  shook  to  its  oozy  bed, 

As  the  swelling  sound  to  the  canopy  went, 
And  the  splintered  fires  like  meteors  shed 

Their  light  o'er  the  tossing  element. 
A  moment  they  gleamed,  then  sank  in  the  foam, 

And  darkness  swept  over  the  gorgeous  glare  — 
They  lighted  the  mariners  down  to  their  home, 

And  left  them  all  sleeping  in  stillness  there  ! 

VI. 

The  storm  is  hushed,  and  my  vision  is  o'er, 
The  Surf  Sprite  changed  to  a  foamy  wreath, 

The  night  is  deepened  along  the  shore, 

And  I  thread  my  way  o'er  the  dusky  heath. 

*  The  loss  of  the  United  States  Sloop-of-War  Hornet,  in  the  Gulf 
of  Mexico,  1829,  suggested  this  passage.  She  was  supposed  to  have 
gone  down  in  a  hurricane,  but  as  nothing  is  positively  known  on  the 
subject,  it  is  not  beyond  lawful  poetical  license  to  imagine,  at  least  in 
a  dream,  that  the  powder  magazine  was  set  on  fire  by  the  lightning, 
and  the  ship  rent  in  pieces,  by  the  explosion. 


36 


THE   SUEF   SPRITE. 


But  often  again  I  shall  go  to  that  cliff, 

And  seek  for  her  form  on  the  flashing  tide, 

For  I  know  she  will  come  in  her  airy  skiff, 
And  over  the  sea  we  shall  swiftly  ride  ! 


/rnst  nf  5ttttemn. 


AT  evening  it  rose  in  the  hollow  glade, 
Where  wild-flowers  blushed  'mid  silence  and  shade  ; 
"Where,  hid  from  the  gaze  of  the  garish  noon, 
They  were  slily  wooed  by  the  trembling  moon. 
It  rose — for  the  guardian  zephyrs  had  flown, 
And  left  the  valley  that  night  alone. 
3* 


38  FIEST  FROST  OF  AUTUMN. 

ISTo  sigh  was  borne  from  the  leafy  hill, 

No  murmur  came  from  the  lapsing  rill ; 

The  boughs  of  the  willow  in  silence  wept, 

And  the  aspen  leaves  in  that  sabbath  slept. 

The  valley  dreamed,  and  the  fairy  lute 

Of  the  whispering  reed  by  the  brook  was  mute. 

The  slender  rush  o'er  the  glassy  rill, 

As  a  marble  shaft,  was  erect  and  still, 

And  no  airy  sylph  on  the  mirror  wave, 

A  dimpling  trace  of  its  footstep  gave. 

The  moon  shone  down,  but  the  shadows  deep 

Of  the  pensile  flowers,  were  hushed  in  sleep. 

The  pulse  was  still  in  that  vale  of  bloom, 

And  the  Spirit  rose  from  its  marshy  tomb. 

It  rose  o'er  the  breast  of  a  silver  spring, 

Where  the  mist  at  morn  shook  its  snowy  wing, 

And  robed  like  the  dew,  when  it  woos  the  flowers. 

It  stole  away  to  their  secret  bowers. 


With  a  lover's  sigh,  and  a  zephyr's  breath, 

It  whispered  bliss,  but  its  work  was  death  : 

It  kissed  the  lip  of  a  rose  asleep, 

And  left  it  there  on  its  stem  to  weep  : 

It  froze  the  drop  on  a  lily's  leaf, 

And  the  shivering  blossom  was  bowed  in  grief. 

O'er  the  gentian  it  breathed,  and  the  withered  flower 

Fell  blackened  and  scathed  in  its  lonely  bower ; 


FIRST  FKOST  OF  AUTUMN.  39 

It  stooped  to  the  asters  all  blooming  around, 
And  kissed  the  buds  as  they  slept  on  the  ground. 
They  slept,  but  no  morrow  could  waken  their  bloom, 
And  shrouded  by  moonlight,  they  lay  in  their  tomb. 

The  Frost  Spirit  went,  like  the  lover  light, 

In  search  of  fresh  beauty  and  bloom  that  night. 

Its  wing  was  plumed  by  the  moon's  cold  ray, 

And  noiseless  it  flew  o'er  the  hills  away. 

It  flew,  yet  its  dallying  fingers  played, 

With  a  thrilling  touch,  through  the  maple's  shade  ; 

It  toyed  with  the  leaves  of  the  sturdy  oak, 

It  sighed  o'er  the  aspen,  and  whispering  spoke 

To  the  bending  sumach,  that  stooped  to  throw 

Its  chequering  shade  o'er  a  brook  below. 

It  kissed  the  leaves  of  the  beech,  and  breathed 

O'er  the  arching  elm,  with  its  ivy  wreathed  : 

It  climbed  to  the  ash  on  the  mountain's  height  — 

It  flew  to  the  meadow,  and  hovering  light 

O'er  leafy  forest  and  fragrant  dell, 

It  bound  them  all  in  its  silvery  spell. 

Each  spreading  bough  heard  the  whispered  bliss, 

And  gave  its  cheek  to  the  gallant's  kiss  — 

Though  giving,  the  leaves  disdainingly  shook, 

As  if  refusing  the  boon  they  took. 

Who  dreamed  that  the  morning's  light  would  speak, 
And  show  that  kiss  on  the  blushing  cheek  ? 


40  FIRST  FROST  OF  AUTUMN. 

For  in  silence  the  fairy  work  went  through  — 

And  no  croning  owl  of  the  scandal  knew : 

No  watch-dog  broke  from  his  slumbers  light, 

To  tell  the  tale  to  the  listening  night. 

But  that  which  in  secret  is  darkly  done, 

Is  oft  displayed  by  the  morrow's  sun  ; 

And  thus  the  leaves  in  the  light  revealed, 

With  their  glowing  hues  what  the  night  concealed. 

The  sweet,  frail  flowers  that  once  welcomed  the  morn, 

Now  drooped  in  their  bowers,  all  shrivelled  and  lorn ; 

While  the  hardier  trees  shook  their  leaves  in  the  blast 

Though  tell-tale  colors  were  over  them  cast. 

The  maple  blushed  deep  as  a  maiden's  cheek, 

And  the  oak  confessed  what  it  would  not  speak. 

The  beech  stood  mute,  but  a  purple  hue 

O'er  its  glossy  robe  was  a  witness  true. 

The  elm  and  the  ivy  with  varying  dyes, 

Protesting  their  innocence,  looked  to  the  skies : 

And  the  sumach  rouged  deeper,  as  stooping  to  look. 

It  glanced  at  the  colors  that  flared  in  the  brook. 

The  delicate  aspen  grew  nervous  and  pale, 

As  the  tittering  forest  seemed  full  of  the  tale  ; 

And  the  lofty  ash,  though  it  tossed  up  its  bough, 

With  a  puritan  air  on  the  mountain's  brow, 

Bore  a  purple  tinge  o'er  its  leafy  fold, 

And  the  hidden  revel  was  gayly  told  ! 


V 


FAK,  far  o'er  the  deep  is  my  island  throne, 
Where  the  sea-gull  roams  and  reigns  alone ; 
Where  nought  is  seen  but  the  beetling  rock, 
And  nought  is  heard  but  the  ocean-shock, 
And  the  scream  of  birds  when  the  storm  is  nigh, 
And  the  crash  of  the  wreck,  and  the  fearful  cry 
Of  drowning  men,  in  their  agony. 


42  THE   SEA-BIKD. 

I  love  to  sit,  when  the  waters  sleep, 

And  ponder  the  depths  of  the  glassy  deep, 

Till  I  dream  that  I  float  on  a  corse  at  sea, 

And  sing  of  the  feast  that  is  made  for  me. 

I  love  on  the  rush  of  the  storm  to  sail, 

And  mingle  my  scream  with  the  hoarser  gale. 

When  the  sky  is  dark,  and  the  billow  high, 

When  the  tempest  sweeps  in  its  terror  by, 

I  love  to  ride  on  the  maddening  blast — 

To  flap  my  wing  o'er  the  fated  mast, 

And  sing  to  the  crew  a  song  of  fear, 

Of  the  reef  and  the  surge  that  await  them  here. 

When  the  storm  is  done  and  the  revel  is  o'er, 

I  love  to  sit  on  the  rocky  shore, 

And  tell  to  the  ear  of  the  dying  breeze, 

The  4ales  that  are  hushed  in  the  sullen  seas  ; 

Of  the  ship  that  sank  in  the  reefy  surge, 

And  left  her  fate  to  the  sea-gull's  dirge  : 

Of  the  lover  that  sailed  to  meet  his  bride, 

And  his  story  gave  to  the  secret  tide  : 

Of  the  father  that  went^  on  the  trustless  main, 

And  never  was  met  by  his  child  again  : 

Of  the  hidden  things  which  the  waves  conceal, 

And  the  sea-bird's  song  can  alone  reveal. 

I  tell  of  the  ship  that  hath  found  a  grave  — 
Her  spars  still  float  on  the  restless  wave," 


THE   SEA-BIED.  43 

But  down  in  the  halls  of  the  voiceless  deep, 

The  forms  of  the  brave  and  the  beautiful  sleep. 

I  saw  the  storm  as  it  gathered  fast, 

I  heard  the  roar  of  the  coming  blast, 

I  marked  the  ship  in  her  fearful  strife, 

As  she  flew  on  the  tide,  like  a  thing  of  life. 

But  the  whirlwind  came,  and  her  masts  were  wrung, 

Away,  and  away  on  the  waters  flung. 

I  sat  on  the  gale  o'er  the  sea-swept  deck, 

And  screamed  in  delight  o'er  the  coming  wreck : 

I  flew  to  the  reef  with  a  heart  of  glee, 

And  wiled  the  ship  to  her  destiny. 

On  the  hidden  rocks  like  a  hawk  she  rushed, 

And  the  sea  through  her  riven  timbers  gushed : 

O'er  the  whirling  surge  the  wreck  was  flung, 

And  loud  on  the  gale  wild  voices  rung. 

I  gazed  on  the  scene — I  saw  despair 

On  the  pallid  brows  of  a  youthful  pair. 

The  maiden  drooped  like  a  gentle  flower, 

When  lashed  by  the  gale  in  its  quivering  bower : 

Her  arms  round  her  lover  she  wildly  twined, 

And  gazed  on  the  sea  with  a  wildered  mind. 

He  bent  o'er  the  trembler,  and  sheltered  her  form, 

From  the  plash  of  the  sea,  and  the  sweep  of  the  storm  ; 

But  woe  to  the  lover,  and  woe  to  the  maid, 

Whose  hopes  on  the  treacherous  deep  are  laid ! 

For  the  Sea  hath  a  King  whose  palaces  shine, 

In  lustre  and  light  down  the  pearly  brine, 


44  THE   SEA-BIRD. 

And  he  loves  to  gather  in  glory  there, 

The  choicest  things  of  the  earth  and  air. 

In  his  deep  saloons  with  coral  crowned, 

Where  gems  are  sparkling  above  and  around, 

He  gathers  his  harem  of  love  and  grace, 

And  beauty  he  takes  to  his  cold  embrace. 

The  winds  and  the  waves  are  his  messengers  true, 

And  lost  is  the  wanderer  whom  they  pursue. 

They  sweep  the  shore,  they  plunder  the  wreck, 

His  stores  to  heap,  and  his  halls  to  deck. 

Oh  !  lady  and  lover,  ye  are  doomed  their  prey  — 

They  come  !  they  come  !  ye  are  swept  away  ! 

Ye  sink  in  the  tide, — but  it  cannot  sever 

The  fond  ones  who  sleep  in  its  depths  for  ever ! 


Wild !  wild  was  the  storm,  and  loud  was  its  roar, 

And  strange  were  the  sights  that  I  hovered  o'er  : 

I  saw  the  babe  with  its  mother  die  ; 

I  listened  to  catch  its  parting  sigh  ; 

And  I  laughed  to  see  the  black  billows  play 

With  the  sleeping  child  in  their  gambols  gay. 

I  saw  a  girl  whose  arms  were  white, 

As  the  foam  that  flashed  on  the  billows'  height ; 

And  the  ripples  played  with  her  glossy  curls, 

And  her  cheek  was  kissed  by  the  dancing  whirls ; 

But  her  bosom  was  dead  to  hope  and  fear, 

For  she  shuddered  not  as  the  shark  came  near. 


THE   SEA-BIRD. 

I  poised  my  foot  on  the  forehead  fair 

Of  a  lovely  boy  that  floated  there  ; 

I  looked  in  the  eyes  of  the  drowning  brave, 

As  they  upward  gazed  through  the  glassy  wave  : 

1  screamed  o'er  the  bubbles  that  told  of  death, 

And  stooped  as  the  last  gave  up  his  breath. 

I  fl appecT  my  wing,  for  the  work  was  done  — 

The  storm  was  hushed,  and  the  laughing  sun 

Sent  his  gushing  light  o'er  the  sullen  seas— 

And  I  tell  my  tale  to  the  fainting  breeze, 

Of  the  hidden  things  which  the  waves  conceal, 

And  the  sea-bird's  song  can  alone  reveal ! 


King  nf  fernrs. 


As  a  shadow  He  flew,  but  sorrow  and  wail 
Came  up  from  his  path,  like  the  moan  of  the  gale. 
His  quiver  was  full,  though  his  arrows  fell  fast 
As  the  sharp  hail  of  winter  when  urged  by  the  blast. 
He  smiled  on  each  shaft  as  it  flew  from  the  string, 
Though  feathered  by  fate,  and  the  lightning  its  wing. 


THE   KING   OF  TERRORS.  47 

Unerring,  unsparing,  it  sped  to  its  mark, 

As  the  mandate  of  destiny,  certain  and  dark. 

The  mail  of  the  warrior  it  severed  in  twain,  — 

The  wall  of  the  castle  it  shivered  amain : 

No  shield  could  shelter,  no  prayer  could  save, 

And  Love's  holy  shrine  no  immunity  gave. 

A  babe  in  the  cradle — its  mother  bent  o'er,  — 

The  arrow  is  sped,  —  and  that  babe  is  no  more  ! 

At  the  faith-plighting  altar,  a  lovely  one  bows,  — 

The  gem  on  her  ringer, — in  Heaven  her  vows  ; 

Unseen  is  the  blow,  but  she  sinks  in  the  crowd, 

And  her  bright  wedding-garment  is  turned  to  a  shroud ! 

n. 

On  flew  the  Destroyer,  o'er  mountain  and  main,  — 
And  where  there  was  life,  there,  there  are  the  slain  ! 
No  valley  so  deep,  no  islet  so  lone, 
But  his  shadow  is  cast,  and  his  victims  are  known. 
He  paused  not,  though  years  rolled  weary  and  slow, 
And  Time's  hoary  pinion  drooped  languid  and  low  : 
He  paused  not  till  Man  from  his  birthplace  was  swept, 
And  the  sea  and  the  land  in  solitude  slept. 

in. 

On  a  mountain  he  stood,  for  the  struggle  was  done,  — 
A  smile  on  his  lip  for  the  victory  won. 
The  city  of  millions, — lone  islet  and  cave, 
The  home  of  the  hermit,  —  all  earth  was  a  grave  ! 


48  THE   KING   OF   TERRORS. 

The  last  of  his  race,  where  the  first  saw  the  light, 
The  monarch  had  met,  and  triumphed  in  fight  : 
Swift,  swift  was  the  steed,  o'er  Shinar's  wide  sand, 
But  swifter  the  arrow  that  flew  from  Death's  hand  ! 


O'er  the  mountain  he  seems  like  a  tempest  to  lower, 
Triumphant  and  dark  in  the  fulness  of  power  ; 
And  flashes  of  flame,  that  play  round  his  crest, 
Bespeak  the  fierce  lightning  that  glows  in  his  breast. 
But  a  vision  of  wonder  breaks  now  on  his  sight  ; 
The  blue  vault  of  heaven  is  gushing  with  light, 
And,  facing  the  tyrant,  a  form  from  the  sky 
Eeturns  the  fierce  glance  of  his  challenging  eye. 
A  moment  they  pause,  —  two  princes  of  might,  — 
The  Demon  of  Darkness,  —  an  Angel  of  Light  ! 
Each  gazes  on  each,  —  no  barrier  between  — 
And  the  quivering  rocks  shrink  aghast  from  the  scene  ! 
The  sword  of  the  angel  waves  free  in  the  air  ; 
Death  looks  to  his  quiver,  —  no  arrow  is  there  ! 
He  falls  like  a  pyramid,  crumbled  and  torn  ; 
And  a  vision  of  light  on  his  dying  eye  borne, 
In  glory  reveals  the  blest  souls  of  the  slain,  — 
And  he  sees  that  his  sceptre  was  transient  and  vain  ; 
For,  'mid  the  bright  throng,  e'en  the  infant  he  slew, 
And  the  altar-struck  bride,  beam  full  on  the  view  ! 


Unintmm  SJrfitgj. 


LOVE  and  Hope  and  Youth,  together — 
Travelling  once  in  stormy  weather, 
Met  a  deep  and  gloomy  tide, 
Flowing  swift  and  dark  and  wide. 
'Twas  named  the  river  of  Despair,  — 
And  many  a  wreck  was  floating  there  ! 
The  urchins  paused,  with  faces  grave, 
Debating  how  to  cross  the  wave, 

4* 


50  THE   RAINBOW  BRIDGE. 

When  lo  !  the  curtain  of  the  storm 
Was  severed,  and  the  rainbow's  form 
Stood  against  the  parting  cloud — 
Emblem  of  peace  on  trouble's  shroud  ! 
Hope  pointed  to  the  signal  flying, 
And  the  three,  their  shoulders  plying, 
O'er  the  stream  the  light  arch  threw  — 
A  rainbow  bridge  of  loveliest  hue ! 
Now,  laughing  as  they  tripped  it  o'er, 
They  gayly  sought  the  other  shore  : 
But  soon  the  hills  began  to  frown, 
And  the  bright  sun  went  darkly  down. 
Though  their  step  was  light  and  fleet, 
The  rainbow  vanished  'neath  their  feet,  — 
And  down  they  went,  —  the  giddy  things  ! 
But  Hope  put  forth  his  ready  wings,  — 
And  clinging  Love  and  Youth  he  bore 
In  triumph  to  the  other  shore. 
But  ne'er  I  ween  should  mortals  deem 
On  rainbow  bridge  to  cross  a  stream, 
Unless  bright,  buoyant  Hope  is  nigh, 
And,  light  with  Love  and  Youth,  they  fly  ! 


Ilitml 


Two  bubbles  on  a  mountain  stream, 
Began  their  race  one  shining  morn, 

And  lighted  by  the  ruddy  beam, 

Went  dancing  down  'mid  shrub  and  thorn. 

The  stream  was  narrow,  wild  and  lone, 
But  gayly  dashed  o'er  mound  and  rock, 

And  brighter  still  the  bubbles  shone, 
As  if  they  loved  the  whirling  shock. 


52  THE   EIVAL   BUBBLES. 

Each  leaf,  and  flower,  and  sunny  ray, 
"Was  pictured  on  them  as  they  flew, 

And  o'er  their  bosoms  seemed  to  play 
In  lovelier  forms  and  colors  new. 

Thus  on  they  went,  and  side  by  side, 
They  kept  in  sad  and  sunny  weather, 

And  rough  or  smooth  the  flowing  tide, 
They  brightest  shone  when  close  together. 

Nor  did  they  deem  that  they  could  sever, 
That  clouds  could  rise,  or  morning  wane ; 

They  loved,  and  thought  that  love  for  ever 
Would  bind  them  in  its  gentle  chain. 

But  soon  the  mountain  slope  was  o'er, 
And  'mid  new  scenes  the  waters  flowed, 

And  the  two  bubbles  now  no  more 

With  their  first  morning  beauty  glowed. 

They  parted,  and  the  sunny  ray 

That  from  each  other's  love  they  borrowed ; 
That  made  their  dancing  bosoms  gay, 

While  other  bubbles  round  them  sorrowed  : 

That  ray  was  dimmed,  and  on  the  wind 
A  shadow  came,  as  if  from  Heaven  ; 

Yet  on  they  flew,  and  sought  to  find 

From  strife,  the  bliss  that  love  had  given. 


THE   EIVAL  BUBBLES.  53 

They  parted,  yet  in  sight  they  kept, 

And  rivals  now  the  friends  became, 
And  if,  perchance,  the  eddies  swept 

Them  close,  they  flashed  with  flame. 

And  fiercer  forward  seemed  to  bound, 
With  the  swift  ripples  toward  the  main ; 

And  all  the  lesser  bubbles  round, 
Each  sought  to  gather  in  its  train. 

They  strove,  and  in  that  eager  strife 
Their  morning  friendship  was  forgot, 

And  all  the  joys  that  sweeten  life, 
The  rival  bubbles  knew  them  not. 

The  leaves,  the  flowers,  the  grassy  shore, 

Were  all  neglected  in  the  chase, 
And  on  their  bosoms  now  no  more 

These  forms  of  beauty  found  a  place. 

But  all  was  dim  and  drear  within, 

And  envy  dwelt  where  love  was  known, 

And  images  of  fear  and  sin 

Were  traced,  where  truth  and  pleasure  shone. 

The  clouds  grew  dark,  the  tide  swelled  high, 
And  gloom  was  o'er  the  waters  flung, 

But  riding  on  the  billows,  nigh 

Each  other  now  the  bubbles  swung. 


54:  THE   KIVAL   BUBBLES. 

Closer  and  closer  still  they  rushed, 
In  anger  o'er  the  rolling  river  ; 

They  met,  and  'mid  the  waters  crushed, 
The  rival  bubbles  burst  for  ever  ! 


tftnrit  Sigljt. 

THE  sun  has  sunk  behind  the  hills, 
The  shadows  o'er  the  landscape  creep  ; 

A  drowsy  sound  the  woodland  fills, 
And  nature  folds  her  arms  to  sleep  : 

Good  night — good  night. 

The  chattering  jay  has  ceased  his  din— 
The  noisy  robin  sings  no  more  — 

The  crow,  his  mountain  haunt  within, 
Dreams  'mid  the  forest's  surly  roar : 

Good  night — good  night. 

The  sunlit  cloud  floats  dim  and  pale ; 

The  dew  is  falling  soft  and  still ; 
The  mist  hangs  trembling  o'er  the  vale, 

And  silence  broods  o'er  yonder  mill : 

Good  night  —  good  night. 


GOOD  NIGHT. 

The  rose,  so  ruddy  in  the  light, 
Bends  on  its  stem  all  ray  less  now, 

And  by  its  side  the  lily  white 
A  sister  shadow,  seems  to  bow  : 

Good  night — good  night. 

The  bat  may  wheel  on  silent  wing— 
The  fox  his  guilty  vigils  keep  — 

The  boding  owl  his  dirges  sing ; 
But  love  and  innocence  will  sleep  : 

Good  night  —  good  night ! 


AK  in  the  West,  where  snow-capt  mountains  rise, 
Like  marble  shafts  beneath  Heaven's  stooping  dome, 
And  sunset's  dreamy  curtain  drapes  the  skies, 
As  if  enchantment  there  would  build  her  home  — 

*  We  are  told  by  the  Geographers  that  the  Missouri,  which  rises  in  the 
glaciers  of  the  Rocky  Mountains,  is  properly  the  head  stream  of  the  Mis 
sissippi,  and  it  is  thus  regarded  in  these  lines.  In  this  view,  the  Mississippi 
is  the  longest  river  in  the  world. 


58  THE   MISSISSIPPI. 

O'er  wood  and  wave,  from  haunts  of  men  away  — 
From  out  the  glen,  all  trembling  like  a  child, 
A  babbling  streamlet  comes  as  if  to  play  — 
Albeit  the  scene  is  savage,  lone  and  wild. 
Here  at  the  mountain's  foot,  that  infant  wave 
'Mid  bowering  leaves  doth  hide  its  rustic  birth  — 
Here  learns  the  rock  and  precipice  to  brave  — 
And  go  the  Monarch  Kiver  of  the  Earth ! 
Far,  far  from  hence,  its  bosom  deep  and  wide, 
Bears  the  proud  steamer  on  its  fiery  wing  — 
Along  its  banks,  bright  cities  rise  in  pride, 
And  o'er  its  breast  their  gorgeous  image  fling. 


The  Mississippi  needs  no  herald  now  — 
But  here  within  this  glen  unknown  to  fame, 
It  flows  content  —  a  bubble  on  its  brow, 
A  leaf  upon  its  breast  —  without  a  name  ! 

II. 

Strange  contrasts  here — for  on  the  glacier's  height, 
The  tempest  raves,  and  arrowy  lightnings  leap  — 


THE   MISSISSIPPI.  59 

Yet  deep  beneath,  the  wild  flowers  lone  and  light, 

On  slender  stems  in  breezeless  silence  sleep. 

Skyward  the  racing  eagles  wildly  fling 

Their  savage  clamor  to  the  echoing  dell  — 

While  sheltered  deep,  the  bee  with  folded  wing, 

Voluptuous  slumbers  in  his  fragrant  cell. 

Around,  the  splintered  rocks  are  heaped  to  heaven, 

With  grisly  caverns  yawning  wide  between, 

As  if  the  Titans  there  had  battle  given, 

And  left  their  ruin  written  on  the  scene  ! 

Yet  o'er  these  ghastly  shapes,  soft  lichens  wind, 

And  timid  daisies  droop,  and  tranquil  flowers 

A  robe  of  many-colored  beauty,  bind, 

As  if  some  vagrant  fairy  claimed  these  bowers. 


in. 

Fit  cradle  this — Majestic  Stream,  for  thee  ! 
Nursed  at  the  glacier's  foot — by  tempests  fed  — 
The  lightning  flashing  o'er  thy  canopy, 
And  thunders  pealing  round  thine  infant  bed  — 
The  pious  Indian  marks  thy  mystic  birth, 
'Mid  storm  and  cloud,  and  nature's  aspect  wild  — 
And,  wondering,  deems  thee  not  a  thing  of  earth, 
But  great  Manitto's  fair  and  favored  child. 
Aye — and  the  mind,  by  inspiration  taught, 
Like  nature's  pupil  feels  a  Presence  near. 


60  THE  MISSISSIPPI. 

Which  bids  the  bosom  tremble  with  the  thought 
That  He  who  came  from  Teman  hath  been  here  !* 

IV. 

What  thronging  fancies  crowd  upon  the  soul, 
As  from  these  heights  the  Giant  Stream  we  trace, 
And  wander  with  its  waters  as  they  roll 
From  hence,  to  their  far  ocean  dwelling-place — 
Marking  its  birth  in  this  bleak  frigid  zone, 
Its  conquering  march  to  yonder  tropic  shore, 
The  boundless  valley  which  it  makes  its  own, 
With  thousand  tribute  rivers  as  they  pour  ! 
No  classic  page  its  story  to  reveal ; 
No  nymph,  or  na'iad,  sporting  in  its  glades  ; 
No  banks  encrimsoned  with  heroic  steel ; 
And  haunted  yet  by  dim  poetic  shades — 
Its  annals  linger  in  the  eternal  rock, 
Hoary  with  centuries ;  in  cataracts  that  sing 
To  the  dull  ear  of  ages  ;  in  the  shock 
Of  plunging  glaciers  that  madly  fling, 
The  forest  like  a  flight  of  spears,  aloft : 
In  wooded  vales  that  spread  beyond  the  view  ; 
In  boundless  prairies,  blooming  fair  and  soft ; 
In  mantling  vines  that  teem  with  clusters  blue ; 
And  as  the  sunny  south  upon  us  breathes  — 
In  orange  groves  that  scent  the  balmy  air, 
And  tempt  soft  summer  with  its  fragrant  wreaths, 
Throughout  the  year  to  be  a  dweller  there. 
*  Habakkuk  iii.  3. 


THE   MISSISSIPPI.  61 

V. 

These  of  the  past  their  whispered  lore  unfold, 

And  fertile  fancy  with  its  wizard  art, 

May  weave  wild  legends,  as  the  seers  of  old 

Made  gods  and  heroes  into  being  start. 

Perchance  some  mystic  mound  may  wake  the  spell : 

A  crumbled  skull  —  a  spear — a  vase  of  clay 

Within  its  bosom  half  the  tale  may  tell  — 

And  all  the  rest  'tis  fancy's  gift  to  say. 

Alas  !  that  ruthless  science  in  these  days, 

To  its  stern  crucible  hath  brought  at  last, 

The  cherished  shapes  that  all  so  fondly  gaze 

Upon  us  from  the  dim  poetic  past ! 

Else  might  these  moonlit  prairies  show  at  dawn, 

The  dew-swept  circle  of  the  elfin  dance  — 

These  woodlands  teem  with  sportive  fay  and  faun  — 

These  grottoes  glimmer  with  sweet  Echo's  glance. 

Perchance  a  future  Homer  might  have  wrought 

From  out  the  scattered  wreck  of  ages  fled, 

Some  long  lost  Troy,  where  mighty  heroes  fought, 

And  made  the  earth  re-echo  with  their  tread! 


VI. 

It  may  not  be,  for  though  these  scenes  are  fair, 
As  fabled  Arcady  —  the  sylph  and  fay, 
And  all  their  gentle  kindred,  shun  the  air, 
Where  car  and  steamer  make  their  stormy  way. 
5* 


62 


THE   MISSISSIPPI. 


Perchance  some  Cooper's  magic  art  may  wake 
The  sleeping  legends  of  this  mighty  vale, 
And  twine  fond  memories  round  the  lawn  and  lake. 
Where  Warrior  fought  or  Lover  told  his  tale  : 


And  when  the  Eed  Man's  form  hath  left  these  glades. 
And  memory's  moonlight  o'er  his  story  streams. 


THE    MISSISSIPPI.  63 

From  their  dim  graves  shall  rise  heroic  shades. 

And  fill  the  faney  with  romantic  dreams. 

Then,  in  the  city's  gorgeous  squares  shall  rise 

The  chiselled  column  to  the  admiring  view  — 

To  mark  the  spot  where  some  stern  Black  Hawk  lies, 

Whom  ages  gone,  our  glorious  grandsires  slew  ! 

VII. 

Dim  shadows  these  that  come  at  Fancy's  call  — 
Yet  deeper  scenes  before  the  Patriot  rise, 
As  fate's  stern  prophet  lifts  the  fearful  pall, 
And  shows  the  future  to  his  straining  eyes. 
Oh  I  shall  that  vision  paint  this  glorious  vale 
With  happy  millions  o'er  its  bosom  spread— 
Or  ghastly  scenes  where  battle  taints  the  gale 
With  brother's  blood  by  brother's  weapon  shed  ? 
Away,  ye  phantom  fears — the  scene  is  fair, 
Down  the  long  vista  of  uncounted  years ; 
Bright  harvests  smile,  sweet  meadows  scent  the  air, 
And  peaceful  plenty  o'er  the  scene  appears. 
The  village  rings  with  labor's  jocund  laugh, 
The  hoyden  shout  around  the  school-house  door, 
The  old  man's  voice,  as  bending  o'er  his  staff, 
He  waxes  valiant  in  the  tales  of  yore  : 
Far  tapering  spires  from  teeming  cities  rise, 
The  sabbath  bell  comes  stealing  on  the  air, 
A  holy  anthem  seeks  the  bending  skies, 
And  earth  and  heaven  seem  fondly  blended  there  ! 


64  THE   MISSISSIPPI. 

Aye  —  and  beyond,  where  distance  spreads  its  blue, 
Down  the  unfolding  vale  of  future  time, 
A  glorious  vision  rises  on  the  view, 
And  wakes  the  bosom  with  a  hope  sublime. 
Majestic  Stream !  at  dim  Creation's  dawn, 
Thou  wert  a  witness  of  that  glorious  birth  — 
And  thy  proud  waters  still  shall  sweep  the  lawn 
When  Peace  shall  claim  dominion  of  the  earth. 
Here  in  this  vale  for  mighty  empire  made, 
Perchance  the  glorious  flag  shall  be  unfurled, 
And  violence  and  wrong  and  ruin  fade, 
Before  its  conquering  march  around  the  world  ! 


ton  IBintomlte. 


Two  neighbors,  living  on  a  hill, 
Had  each — and  side  by  side  —  a  mill. 
The  one  was  Jones, — a  thrifty  wight— 
Whose  mill  in  every  wind  went  right. 
The  storm  and  tempest  vainly  spent 
Their  rage  upon  it — round  it  went ! 
E'en  when  the  summer  breeze  was  light, 
The  whirling  wings  performed  their  flight ; 
And  hence  a  village  saying  rose  — 
"  As  sure  as  Jones's  mill,  it  goes." 


66  THE  TWO   WINDMILLS. 

Not  so  with  neighbor  Smith's — close  by  ; 
Full  half  the  time  it  would  not  ply : 
Save  only  when  the  wind  was  west, 
Still  as  a  post  it  stood  at  rest. 
By  every  tempest  it  was  battered, 
By  every  thundergust  'twas  shattered ; 
Through  many  a  rent  the  rain  did  filter  ; 
And,  fair  or  foul,  'twas  out  of  kilter ; 
And  thus  the  saying  came  at  last — 
"  Smith's  mill  is  made  for  folks  that  fast." 

Now,  who  can  read  this  riddle  right  ? 
Two  mills  are  standing  on  a  height  — 
One  whirling  brisk,  whate'er  the  weather, 
The  other,  idle,  weeks  together  ! 

Come,  gentle  reader,  lend  thine  ear, 
And  thou  the  simple  truth  shalt  hear  ; 
And  mark, — for  here  the  moral  lurks,— 
Smith  held  to  faith,  but  not  to  works ; 
While  Jones  believed  in  both,  and  so, 
By  faith  and  practice,  made  it  go  ! 

Smith  prayed,  and  straight  sent  in  his  bill, 
Expecting  Heaven  to  tend  his  mill ; 
And  grumbled  sore,  whene'er  he  found 
That  wheels  ungreased  would  not  go  round. 


THE   TWO   WINDMILLS.  67 

Not  so  with  Jones — for,  though  as  prayerful, 
To  grease  his  wheels  he  e'er  was  careful, 
And  healed,  with  ready  stitch,  each  rent 
That  ruthless  time  or  tempest  sent ; 
And  thus,  by  works,  his  faith  expressed, 
Good  neighbor  Jones  by  Heaven  was  blessed. 


irafr  fyi  Sited. 


MY  boat  is  on  the  bounding  tide, 
Away,  away  from  surge  and  shore ; 

A  waif  upon  the  wave  I  ride, 
Without  a  rudder  or  an  oar. 

Blow  as  ye  list,  ye  breezes,  blow  — 
The  compass  now  is  nought  to  me  ; 

Flow  as  ye  will,  ye  billows,  flow, 
If  but  ye  bear  me  out  to  sea. 

Yon  waving  line  of  dusky  blue, 

Where  care  and  toil  oppress  the  heart 

To  thee  I  bid  a  long  adieu, 

And  smile  to  feel  that  thus  we  part. 

There  let  the  sweating  ploughman  toil, 
The  yearning  miser  count  his  gain, 

The  fevered  scholar  waste  his  oil, 
But  I  am  bounding  o'er  the  main  ! 


THE    IDEAL  AND  THE   ACTUAL.  69 

How  fresh  these  breezes  to  the  brow  — 

How  dear  this  freedom  to  the  soul ; 
Bright  ocean,  I  am  with  thee  now, 

So  let  thy  golden  billows  roll ! 

#*#•#'#* 

But  stay — what  means  this  throbbing  brain— 
This  heaving  chest — these  pulses  quick? 

Oh,  take  me  to  the  land  again, 
For  I  am  very,  very  sick  ! 


(0nltoE 


IN  midniglit  dreams  the  Wizard  came, 

And  beckoned  me  away  — 
With  tempting  hopes  of  wealth  and  fame, 

He  cheered  my  lonely  way. 
He  led  me  o'er  a  dusky  heath, 

And  there  a  river  swept, 
Whose  gay  and  glassy  tide  beneath, 

Uncounted  treasure,  slept. 
The  wooing  ripples  lightly  dashed 

Around  the  cherished  store, 
And  circling  eddies  brightly  flashed 

Above  the  yellow  ore. 
I  bent  me  o'er  the  deep  smooth  stream, 

And  plunged  the  gold  to  get, — 
But  oh !  it  vanished  with  my  dream  — 

And  I  got  dripping  wet ! 
O'er  lonely  heath  and  darksome  hill, 

As  shivering  home  I  went, 
The  mocking  Wizard  whispered  shrill, 

*  Thou'dst  better  been  content !' 


OUR  altar  is  the  dewy  sod — 
Our  temple  yon  blue  throne  of  God : 
No  priestly  rite  our  souls  to  bind— 
We  bow  before  the  Almighty  Mind. 

Oh,  Thou  whose  realm  is  wide  as  air — 
Thou  wilt  not  spurn  the  Gipsies'  prayer  : 
Though  banned  and  barred  by  all  beside, 
Be  Thou  the  Outcast's  guard  and  guide. 


THE   GIPSIES'   PRAYEK. 

Poor  fragments  of  a  Nation  wrecked  — 
Its  story  whelmed  in  Time's  neglect— 
We  drift  unheeded  on  the  wave, 
If  God  refuse  the  lost  to  save. 

Yet  though  we  name  no  Fatherland— 
And  though  we  clasp  no  kindred  hand  — 
Though  houseless,  homeless  wanderers  we- 
Oh  give  us  Hope,  and  Heaven  with  Thee ! 


tiira  fnr  a  lltiral 


PEACE  to  the  dead  !     The  forest  weaves, 
Around  your  couch,  its  shroud  of  leaves  ; 
While  shadows  dim  and  silence  deep, 
Bespeak  the  quiet  of  your  sleep. 

Rest,  pilgrim,  here  !     Your  journey  o'er, 
Life's  weary  cares  ye  heed  no  more  ; 
Time's  sun  has  set,  in  yonder  west  — 
Your  work  is  done  —  rest,  Pilgrim,  rest  ! 

Rest  till  the  morning  hour  ;  wait 
Here,  at  Eternity's  dread  gate, 
Safe  in  the  keeping  of  the  sod, 
And  the  sure  promises  of  God. 

Dark  is  your  home  —  yet  round  the  tomb, 
Tokens  of  hope  —  sweet  flowerets  bloom  ; 
And  cherished  memories,  soft  and  dear, 
Blest  as  their  fragrance,  linger  here  ! 

We  speak,  yet  ye  are  dumb  !     How  dread 
This  deep,  stern  silence  of  the  Dead  ! 
The  whispers  of  the  Grave,  severe, 
The  listening  Soul  alone  can  hear  I 
6* 


fniig: 


At  misty  dawn, 

At  rosy  morn, 

Redbreast 


Another  day,  his  song  is  gay, 
For  a  listening  bird  is  near — 

0  ye  who  sorrow,  come  borrow,  borrow, 
A  lesson  of  robin  here  ! 


at 


HERE  is  the  boundless  ocean,  —  there  the  sky, 

O'er-arching  broad  and  blue — 
Telling  of  God  and  heaven — how  deep,  how  high, 

How  glorious  and  true  ! 

Upon  the  wave  there  is  an  anthem  sweet, 

Whispered  in  fear  and  love, 
Sending  a  solemn  tribute  to  the  feet 

Of  Him  who  sits  above. 

God  of  the  waters  !     Nature  owns  her  King ! 

The  Sea  thy  sceptre  knows  ; 
At  thy  command  the  tempest  spreads  its  wing, 

Or  folds  it  to  repose. 

And  when  the  whirlwind  hath  gone  rushing  by, 

Obedient  to  thy  will, 
What  reverence  sits  upon  the  wave  and  sky, 

Humbled,  subdued,  and  still! 


76  THOUGHTS  AT  SEA. 

Oh !  let  my  soul,  like  this  submissive  sea, 

With  peace  upon  its  breast, 
By  the  deep  influence  of  thy  Spirit  be 

Holy  and  hushed  to  rest. 

And  as  the  gladdening  sun  lights  up  the  morn, 

Bidding  the  storm  depart, 
So  may  the  Sun  of  Eighteousness  adorn, 

With  love,  my  shadowed  heart. 


fll  lit 


THE  shore  hath  blent  with  the  distant  skies, 
O'er  the  bend  of  the  crested  seas, 

And  the  leaning  ship  in  her  pathway  flies, 
On  the  sweep  of  the  freshened  breeze. 

Swift  be  its  flight !  for  a  dying  guest 

It  bears  across  the  billow, 
And  she  fondly  sighs  in  her  native  West 

To  find  a  peaceful  pillow. 

There,  o'er  the  tide,  her  kindred  sleep, 
And  she  would  sleep  beside  them  — 

It  may  not  be  !  for  the  sea  is  deep, 

And  the  waves  —  the  waves  divide  them  1 


78  A   BURIAL  AT  SEA. 

It  may  not  be  !  for  the  flush  is  flown, 

That  lighted  her  lily  cheek— 
'Twas  the  passing  beam,  ere  the  sun  goes  down. 

Life's  last  and  loveliest  streak. 

"Tis  gone,  and  a  dew  is  o'er  her  now  — 

The  dew  of  the  mornless  eve  — 
No  morrow  will  shine  on  that  pallid  brow, 

For  the  spirit  hath  ta'en  its  leave. 

-*  -::-  *  -x-  -::- 

The  ship  heaves  to,  and  the  funeral  rite, 

O'er  the  lovely  form  is  said, 
And  the  rough  man's  cheek  with  tears  is  bright, 

As  he  lowers  the  gentle  dead. 

The  corse  sinks  down,  alone  —  alone, 

To  its  dark  and  dreary  grave, 
And  the  soul  on  a  lightened  wing  hath  flown, 

To  the  world  beyond  the  wave. 

'Tis  a  fearful  thing  in  the  sea  to  sleep 

Alone  in  a  silent  bed  — 
'Tis  a  fearful  thing  on  the  shoreless  deep 

Of  the  spirit-world  to  tread ! 


Brcam  uf 


IN  days  of  yore,  while  yet  the  world  was  new, 
And  all  around  was  beautiful  to  view^ — 
When  spring  or  summer  ruled  the  happy  hours, 
And  golden  fruit  hung  down  mid  opening  flowers  ; 
When,  if  you  chanced  among  the  woods  to  stray, 
The  rosy-footed  dryad  led  the  way,  — 
Or  if,  beside  a  mountain  brook,  your  path, 
You  ever  caught  some  naiad  at  her  bath  : 
'Twas  in  that  golden  day,  that  Damon  strayed, 
Musing,  alone,  along  a  Grecian  glade. 


80  THE   DREAM   OF   YOUTH. 

Ketired  the  scene,  yet  in  the  morning  light, 
Athens  in  view,  shone  glimmering  to  the  sight. 
'Twas  far  away,  yet  painted  on  the  skies, 
It  seemed  a  marble  cloud  of  glorious  dyes, 
Where  yet  the  rosy  morn,  with  lingering  ray, 
Loved  on  the  sapphire  pediments  to  play. 
But  why  did  Damon  heed  the  distant  scene  ? 
For  he  was  young,  and  all  around  was  green  : 
A  noisy  brook  was  romping  through  the  dell, 
And  on  his  ear  the  laughing  echoes  fell : 
Along  his  path  l3ie  stooping  wild  flowers  grew, 
And  woo'd  the  very  zephyrs  as  they  flew. 
Then  why  young  Damon,  heeding  nought  around, 
Seemed  in  some  thrall  of  distant  vision  bound, 
I  cannot  tell — but  dreamy  grew  his  gaze, 
And  all  his  thought  was  in  a  misty  maze. 
Awhile  he  sauntered — then  beneath  a  tree, 
He  sat  him  down,  and  there  a  reverie 
Came  o'er  his  spirit  like  a  spell, — and  bright, 
A  truth-like  vision,  shone  upon  his  sight. 
Around  on  every  side,  with  glowing  pinions, 
A  circling  band,  as  if  from  Jove's  dominions, 
All  wooing  came,  and  sought  with  wily  art, 
To  steal  away  the  youthful  dreamer's  heart. 
One  offered  wealth  —  another  spoke  of  fame, 
And  held  a  wreath  to  twine  around  his  name. 
One  brought  the  pallet,  and  the  magic  brush, 
By  which  creative  art  bids  nature  blush, 


THE   DKEAM   OF   YOUTH.  81 

To  see  her  rival  —  and  the  artful  boy, 

His  story  told  —  the  all-entrancing  joy 

His  skill  could  give, — but  well  the  rogue  concealed 

The  piercing  thorns  that  flourish,  unrevealed, 

Along  the  artist's  path — the  poverty,  the  strife 

Of  study,  and  the  weary  waste  of  life  — 

All  these,  the  drawback  of  his  wily  tale, 

The  little  artist  covered  with  a  veil. 

Young  Damon  listened,  and  his  heart  beat  high  — 
But  now  a  cunning  archer  gained  his  eye  — 
And  stealing  close,  he  whispered  in  his  ear, 
A  glowing  tale,  so  musical  and  dear, 
That  Damon  vowed,  like  many  a  panting  youth, 
To  Love,  eternal  constancy  and  truth  ! 
But  while  the  whisper  from  his  bosom  broke, 
A  fearful  Image  to  his  spirit  spoke  : 
With  frowning  brow,  and  giant  arm  he  stood, 
Holding  a  glass,  as  if  in  threatening  mood, 
He  waited  but  a  moment  for  the  sand, 
To  sweep  the  idle  Dreamer  from  the  land ! 

Young  Damon  started,  and  his  dream  was  o'er, 
But  to  his  soul,  the  seeming  vision  bore 
A  solemn  meaning,  which  he  could  not.  spurn— 
And  Youth,  perchance,  may  from  our  fable  learn, 
That  while  the  beckoning  passions  woo  and  sigh, 
TIME,  with  his  ready  scythe,  stands  listening  by. 


You  bid  the  minstrel  strike  the  lute, 
And  wake  once  more  a  soothing  tone  — 

Alas !  its  strings,  untuned,  are  mute, 
Or  only  echo  moan  for  moan. 

The  flowers  around  it  twined  are  dead, 

And  those  who  wreathed  them  there,  are  flown ; 

The  spring  that  gave  them  bloom  is  fled, 
And  winter's  frost  is  o'er  them  thrown. 

Poor  lute  !  forgot  'mid  strife  and  care, 

I  fain  would  try  thy  strings  once  more,  — 

Perchance  some  lingering  tone  is  there — 
Some  cherished  melody  of  yore. 

*  Written  by  request  for  the  "  Memorial,''  a  work  pub 
lished  in  New- York,  1860,  in  commemoration  of  the  late 
Frances  S.  Osgood,— edited  by  Mary  E.  Hewett. 


REMEMBRANCE.  83 

If  flowers  that  bloom  no  more  are  here, 

Their  odors  still  around  us  cling — 
And  though  the  loved  are  lost — still  dear, 

Their  memories  may  wake  the  string. 

I  strike  —  but  lo,  the  wonted  thrill, 

Of  joy  in  sorrowing  cadence  dies  : 
Alas !  the  minstrel's  hand  is  chill, 

And  the  sad  lute,  responsive,  sighs. 

'Tis  ever  thus  —  our  life  begins, 

In  Eden,  and  all  fruit  seems  sweet  — 

We  taste  and  knowledge,  with  our  sins, 
Creeps  to  the  heart  and  spoils  the  cheat. 

In  youth,  the  sun  brings  light  alone  — 
No  shade  then  rests  upon  the  sight— 

But  when  the  beaming  morn  is  flown, 
We  see  the  shadows — not  the  light. 

I  once  found  music  every  where  — 
The  whistle  from  the  willow  wrung  — 

The  string,  set  in  the  window,  there, 
Sweet  measures  to  my  fancy  flung. 

But  now,  this  dainty  lute  is  dead  — 

Or  answers  but  to  sigh  and  wail, 
Echoing  the  voices  of  the  fled, 

Passing  before  me  dim  and  pale ! 


S-i  KEMEMBKANCE. 

Yet  angel  forms  are  in  that  train, 
And  One  upon  the  still  air  flings, 

Of  woven  melody,  a  strain, 

Down  trembling  from  Her  heaven-bent  wings. 

'Tis  past — that  Speaking  Form  is  flown — 
But  memory's  pleased  and  listening  ear, 

Shall  oft  recall  that  choral  tone, 
To  love  and  poetry  so  dear. 

And  far  away  in  after  time, 

Shall  blended  Piety  and  Love 
Find  fond  expression  in  the  rhyme, 

Bequeathed  to  earth  by  One  above. 

*  *  #  -K  *• 

Poor  lute  ! — thy  bounding  pulse  is  still, — 

Yet  all  thy  silence  I  forgive, 
That  thus  thy  last  —  thy  dying  thrill, 

Would  make  Her  gentle  virtues  live  ! 


FRIEND  of  my  early  days,  we  meet  once  more  ! 

Once  more  I  stand  thine  aged  boughs  beneath, 
And  hear  again  the  rustling  music  pour, 

Along  thy  leaves,  as  whispering  spirits  breathe. 

Full  many  a  day  of  sunshine  and  of  storm, 
Since  last  we  parted,  both  have  surely  known  ; 

Thy  leaves  are  thinned,  decrepit  is  thy  form,  — 
And  all  my  cherished  visions,  they  are  flown ! 


86  THE   OLD   OAK. 

How  beautiful,  how  brief,  those  sunny  hours 
Departed  now,  when  life  was  in  its  spring  — 

When  Fancy  knew  no  scene  undecked  *with  flowers, 
And  Expectation  flew  on  Fancy's  wing  ! 

Here,  on  the  bank,  beside  this  whispering  stream, 
Which  still  runs  by  as  gayly  as  of  yore, 

Marking  its  eddies,  I  was  wont  to  dream. 
Of  things  away,  on  some  far  fairy  shore. 

Then  every  whirling  leaf  and  bubbling  ball, 
That  floated  by,  was  full  of  radiant  thought ; 

Each  linked  with  love,  had  music  at  its  call, 
And  thrilling  echoes  o'er  my  bosom  brought. 

The  bird  that  sang  within  this  gnarled  oak, 
The  waves  that  dallied  with  its  leafy  shade, 

The  mellow  murmurs  from  its  boughs  that  broke, 
Their  joyous  tribute  to  my  spirit  paid. 

No  phantom  rose  to  tell  of  future  ill, 

No  grisly  warning  marr'd  my  prophet  dreams  — 

My  heart  translucent  as  the  leaping  rill, 

My  thoughts  all  free  and  flashing  at  its  beams. 

Here  is  the  grassy  knoll  I  used  to  seek 

At  summer  noon,  beneath  the  spreading  shade, 

And  watch  the  flowers  that  stooped  with  glowing  cheek, 
To  meet  the  romping  ripples  as  they  played. 


THE   OLD   OAK.  87 

Here  is  the  spot  which  memory's  magic  glass 
Hath  often  brought,  arrayed  in  fadeless  green, 

Making  this  oak,  this  brook,  this  waving  grass — 
A  simple  group  —  fond  Nature's  fairest  scene. 

And  as  I  roamed  beside  the  Ehone  or  Ehine, 
Or  other  favored  stream,  in  after  days, 

With  jealous  love,  this  rivulet  would  shine, 
Full  on  my  heart,  and  claim  accustomed  praise. 

And  oh !  how  oft  by  sorrow  overborne, 
By  care  oppressed,  or  bitter  malice  wrung, 

By  friends  betrayed,  or  disappointment  torn, 
My  weary  heart,  all  sickened  and  unstrung — 

Hath  yearned  to  leave  the  bootless  strife  afar, 
And  find  beneath  this  oak  a  quiet  grave, 

Where  the  rough  echo  of  the  world's  loud  jar, 
Yields  to  the  music  of  the  mellow  wave  ! 

And  now  again  I  stand  this  stream  beside ; 

Again  I  hear  the  silver  ripples  flow  — 
I  mark  the  whispers  murmuring  o'er  the  tide, 

And  the  light  bubbles  trembling  as  they  go. 

But  oh !  the  magic-spell  that  lingered  here, 
In  boyhood's  golden  age,  my  heart  to  bless, 

With  the  bright  waves  that  rippled  then  so  clear, 
Is  lost  in  ocean's  dull  forgetfulness. 


THE    OLD   OAK, 

Grone  are  the  visions  of  that  glorious  time  — 
Gone  are  the  glancing  birds  I  loved  so  well, 

Nor  will  they  wake  again  their  silver  chime, 

From  the  deep  tomb  of  night  in  which  they  dwell! 

And  if  perchance  some  fleeting  memories  steal, 
Like  far-off  echoes  to  my  dreaming  ear, 

Away,  ungrasped,  the  cheating  visions  wheel, 
As  spectres  start  upon  the  wing  of  fear. 

Alas  !  the  glorious  sun,  which  then  was  high, 
Touching  each  common  thing  with  rosy  light, 

Is  darkly  banished  from  the  lowering  sky  — 
And  life's  dull  onward  pathway  lies,  in  night. 

Yes — I  am  changed — and  this  gray  gnarled  form, 
Its  leaves  all  scattered  by  the  rending  blast, 

Is  but  an  image  of  my  heart ;  —  the  storm  — 
The  storm  of  life,  doth  make  us  such  at  last ! 

Farewell,  old  oak  !  I  leave  thee  to  the  wind, 
And  go  to  struggle  with  the  chafing  tide  — 

Soon  to  the  dust  thy  form  shall  be  resigned, 
And  I  would  sleep  thy  crumbling  limbs  beside. 

Thy  memory  will  pass  ;  thy  sheltering  shade, 
Will  weave  no  more  its  tissue  o'er  the  sod  ; 

And  all  thy  leaves,  ungathered  in  the  glade, 
Shall,  by  the  reckless  hoof  of  time,  be  trod. 


THE    OLD   OAK.  Q 

My  cherished  hopes,  like  shadows  and  like  leaves, 
Name,  fame,  and  fortune — each  shall  pass  away  ; 

And  all  that  castle-building  fancy  weaves, 
Shall  sleep,  unthinking,  as  the  drowsy  clay. 

But  from  thy  root  another  tree  shall  bloom — 
With  living  leaves  its  tossing  boughs  shall  rise ; 

And  the  winged  spirit — bursting  from  the  tomb, — 
Oh,  shall  it  spring  to  light  beyond  these  skies  ? 


dto  a  3#illr  Sinlrf,  in  3Jlarrlj. 

MY  pretty  flower, 
How  cam'st  thou  here  ? 
Around  thee  all 
Is  sad  and  sere, — 
The  brown  leaves  tell 
Of  winter's  breath, 
And  all  but  thou 
Of  doom  and  death. 

The  naked  forest 
Shivering  sighs,  — 
On  yonder  hill 
The  snow-wreath  lies, 
And  all  is  bleak — 
Then  say,  sweet  flower, 
Whence  cam'st  thou  here 
In  such  an  hour  ? 


TO   A   WILD   VIOLET.  91 

N~o  tree  unfolds  its  timid  bud— 
Chill  pours  the  hill-side's  lurid  flood  — 
The  tuneless  forest  all  is  dumb — 
Whence  then,  fair  violet,  didst  thou  come  ? 

Spring  hath  not  scattered  yet  her  flowers, 
But  lingers  still  in  southern  bowers ; 
No  gardener's  art  hath  cherished  thee, 
For  wild  and  lone  thou  springest  free. 

Thou  springest  here  to  man  unknown, 

Waked  into  life  by  God  alone  ! 

Sweet  flower — thou  tellest  well  thy  birth, — 

Thou  cam'st  from  Heaven,  though  soiled  in  earth  ! 


As  down  life's  morning  stream  we  glide, 
Full  oft  some  Flower  stoops  o'er  its  side, 
And  beckons  to  the  smiling  shore, 
Where  roses  strew  the  landscape  o'er : 
Yet  as  we  reach  that  Flower  to  clasp, 
It  seems  to  mock  the  cheated  grasp, 
And  whisper  soft,  with  siren  glee, 
"  My  bloom  is  not — oh  not  for  thee  !" 

II. 

Within  Youth's  flowery  vale  I  tread, 
By  some  entrancing  shadow  led — 
And  Echo  to  my  call  replies — 
Yet,  as  she  answers,  lo,  she  flies  ! 
And,  as  I  seem  to  reach  her  cell — 
The  grotto,  where  she  weaves  her  spell  — 
The  Nymph's  sweet  voice  afar  I  hear — 
So  Love  departs,  as  we  draw  near ! 


ILLUSIONS.  93 

III. 

Upon  a  mountain's  dizzy  height, 
Ambition's  temple  gleams  with  light: 
Proud  forms  are  moving  fair  within, 
And  bid  us  strive  that  light  to  win. 
O'er  giddy  cliff  and  crag  we  strain, 
And  reach  the  mountain  top  —  in  vain  ! 
For  lo !  the  temple,  still  afar, 
Shines  cold  and  distant  as  a  star. 

IV. 

I  hear  a  voice,  whose  accents  dear 
Melt,  like  soft  music,  in  mine  ear. 
A  gentle  hand,  that  seems  divine, 
Is  warmly,  fondly  clasped  in  mine  ; 
And  lips  upon  my  cheeks  are  pressed, 
That  whisper  tones  from  regions  blest : 
But  soon  I  start — for  friendship's  kiss 
Is  gone,  and  lo !  a  serpent's  hiss. 

v. 

The  sun  goes  down,  and  shadows  rest 
On  the  gay  scenes  by  morning  blest ; 
The  gathering  clouds  invest  the  air— 
Yet  one  bright  constant  Star  is  there. 
Onward  we  press,  with  heavy  load, 
O'er  tangled  path  and  rough'ning  road, 
For  still  that  Star  shines  bright  before  ; 
But  now  it  sinks,  and  all  is  o'er ! 

8 


:  to 


THE  sportive  sylphs  that  course  the  air, 
Unseen  on  wings  that  twilight  weaves, 
Around  the  opening  rose  repair, 
And  breathe  sweet  incense  o'er  its  leaves. 


THE   ROSE:    TO   ELLEN. 

With  sparkling  cups  of  bubbles  made,  ' 
They  catch  the  ruddy  beams  of  day, 
And  steal  the  rainbow's  sweetest  shade, 
Their  blushing  favorite  to  array. 

They  gather  gems  with  sunbeams  bright, 
From  floating  clouds  and  falling  showers  - 
They  rob  Aurora's  locks  of  light 
To  grace  their  own  fair  queen  of  flowers. 

Thus,  thus  adorned,  the  speaking  Rose, 
Becomes  a  token  fit  to  tell, 
Of  things  that  words  can  ne'er  disclose, 
And  nought  but  this  reveal  so  well. 

Then  take  my  flower,  and  let  its  leaves 
Beside  thy  heart  be  cherished  near, 
While  that  confiding  heart  receives 
The  thought  it  whispers  to  thine  ear ! 


ON  a  tall  cliff  that  overhung  the  deep, 
A  maniac  stood.     He  heeded  not  the  sweep 
Of  the  swift  gale  that  lashed  the  troubled  main, 
And  spread  with  showery  foam  the  watery  plain. 
His  reckless  foot  was  on  the  dizzy  line 
That  edged  the  rock,  impending  o'er  the  brine  ; 
His  form  was  bent,  and  leaning  from  the  height, 
Like  the  light  gull  whose  wing  is  stretched  for  flight. 


THE    MANIAC.  97 

Far  down  beneath  his  feet,  the  surges  broke  ; 

Above  his  head  the  pealing  thunders  spoke ; 

Around  him  flashed  the  lightning's  ruddy  glare, 

And  rushing  torrents  swept  along  the  air. 

But  nought  he  heeded,  save  a  gallant  sail 

That  on  the  sea  was  wrestling  with  the  gale. 

Far  on  the  ocean's  billowy  verge  she  hung, 

And  strove  to  shun  the  storm  that  landward  swung. 

With  many  a  tack  she  turned  her  bending  side. 

To  the  rude  blast,  and  bravely  stemmed  the  tide. 

In  vain  !  the  bootless  strife  with  fate  is  o'er— 

And  the  doomed  vessel  nears  the  iron  shore. 

A  mighty  bird,  she  seems,  whose  wing  is  rent 

By  the  red  shaft  from  heaven's  fierce  quiver  sent. 

Her  mast  is  shivered  and  her  helm  is  lashed, 

Around  her  prow  the  kindled  waves  are  dashed  — 

And  as  an  eagle  swooping  in  its  might, 

Toward  the  dark  cliff  she  speeds  her  headlong  flight. 

She  comes,  she  strikes !  the  trembling  wave  withdraws. 

And  the  hushed  elements  a  moment  pause  ; 

Then  swelling  high  above  their  helpless  prey, 

The  billows  burst,  and  bear  the  wreck  away ! 


One  look  to  heaven  the  raptured  Maniac  cast, 
One  low  breathed  murmur  from  his  bosom  passed : 
'  God  of  the  soul  and  sea  !  I  read  thy  choice  — 
Told  by  the  shipwreck  and  the  whirlwind's  voice. 

8* 


98  THE    MANIAC. 

In  this  dread  omen  I  can  trace  my  doom, 
And  hear  thee  bid  me  seek  an  ocean-tomb. 
Like  the  lost  ship  my  weary  mind  hath  striven 
With  the  wild  tempest  o'er  my  spirit  driven  ; 
That  strife  is  done  —  and  the  dim  caverned  sea 
Of  this  wrecked  bosom  must  the  mansion  be. 
Thou  who  canst  bid  the  billows  cease  to  roll, 
Oh !  smooth  a  pillow  for  my  weary  soul — 
Watch  o'er  the  pilgrim  in  his  shadowy  sleep, 
And  send  sweet  dreams  to  light  the  sullen  deep  [' 

Thus  spoke  the  maniac,  while  above  he  gazed, 
And  his  pale  hands  beseechingly  upraised ; 
Then  on  the  viewless  wind  he  swiftly  sprung, 
And  far  below  his  senseless  form  was  flung ; 
A  thin  white  spray  told  where  he  met  the  wave, 
And  battling  surges  thunder  o'er  his  grave ! 


ALONG  that  gloomy  river's  brim, 

Where  Charon  plies  the  ceaseless  oar, 
Two  mighty  Shadows,  dusk  and  dim, 

Stood  lingering  on  the  dismal  shore. 
Hoarse  came  the  rugged  Boatman's  call, 

"While  echoing  caves  enforced  the  cry 
And  as  they  severed  life's  last  thrall, 

Each  Spirit  spoke  one  parting  sigh. 
"  Farewell  to  earth  !     I  leave  a  name, 

Written- in  fire,  on  field  and  flood  — 


100  THE    TWO    SHADES. 

Wide  as  the  wind,  the  voice  of  fame, 
Hath  borne  my  fearful  tale  of  blood. 

And  though  across  this  leaden  wave, 
Eeturnless  now  my  spirit  haste, 

Napoleon's  name  shall  know  no  grave, 
His  mighty  deeds  be  ne'er  erased. 

The  rocky  Alp,  where  once  was  set 
My  courser's  hoof,  shall  keep  the  seal, 

And  ne'er  the  echo  there  forget 
The  clangor  of  my  glorious  steel. 

Marengo's  hill-sides  flow  with  wine  — 
And  summer  there  the  olive  weaves, 

But  busy  memory  e'er  will  twine 
The  blood-stained  laurel  with  its  leaves. 

The  Danube's  rushing  billows  haste 
With  the  black  ocean- wave  to  hide— 

Yet  is  my  startling  story  traced, 
In  every  murmur  of  its  tide. 

The  pyramid  on  Giseh's  plain, 
Its  founder's  fame  hath  long  forgot  — 

But  from  its  memory,  time,  in  vain 
Shall  strive  Napoleon's  name  to  blot. 

The  bannered  storm  that  floats  the  sky, 
With  Grod's  red  quiver  in  its  fold, 

O'er  startled  realms  shall  lowering  fly, 
A  type  of  me,  till  time  is  told. 

The  storm — a  thing  of  weal  and  woe, 
Of  life  and  death,  of  peace  and  power  — 


THE   TWO   SHADES.  101 

That  lays  the  giant  forest  low, 
Yet  cheers  the  bent  grass  with  its  shower  — 

That,  in  its  trampled  pathway  leaves, 
The  uptorn  roots  to  bud  anew, 

And  where  the  past  o'er  ruin  grieves, 
Bids  fresher  beauty  spring  to  view  :— 

The  storm  —  an  emblem  of  my  name,  — 
Shall  keep  my  memory  in  the  skies— 

Its  flash-wreathed  wing,  a  flag  of  flame, 
Shall  spread  my  glory  as  it  flies." 


The  Spirit  passed,  and  now  alone, 
The  darker  Shadow  trod  the  shore  — 

Deep  from  his  breast  the  parting  tone 
Swept  with  the  wind,  the  landscape  o'er. 

"  Farewell !     I  will  not  speak  of  deeds,  — 
For  these  are  written  but  in  sand  — 

And,  as  the  furrow  choked  with  weeds, 
Fade  from  the  memory  of  the  land. 

The  war-plumed  chieftain  cannot  stay, 
To  guard  the  gore  his  blade  hath  shed  — 

Time  sweeps  the  purple  stain  away, 
And  throws  a  veil  o'er  glory's  bed. 

But  though  my  form  must  fade  from  view, 
And  Byron  bow  to  fate  resigned,— 

Undying  as  the  fabled  Jew, 
Harold's  dark  spirit  stays  behind  ! 


102  THE    TWO   SHADES. 

And  he  who  yet  in  after  years, 
Shall  tread  the  vine-clad  shores  of  Khine, 

In  Chillon's  gloom  shall  pour  his  tears, 
Or  raptured,  see  blue  Leman  shine  — 

He  shall  not  —  cannot,  go  alone  — 
Harold  unseen  shall  seek  his  side  : 

Shall  whisper  in  his  ear  a  tone, 
So  seeming  sweet,  he  cannot  chide. 

He  cannot  chide  ;  although  he  feel, 
While  listening  to  the  magic  verse, 

A  serpent  round  his  bosom  steal, 
He  still  shall  hug  the  coiling  curse. 

Or  if  beneath  Italian  skies, 
The  Avanderer's  feet  delighted  glide, 

Harold,  in  merry  Juan's  guise, 
Shall  be  his  tutor  and  his  guide. 

One  living  essence  Grod  hath  poured 
In  every  heart — the  love  of  sway  — 

And  though  he  may  not  wield  the  sword. 
Each  is  a  despot  in  his  way. 

The  infant  rules  by  cries  and  tears  — 
The  maiden,  with  her  sunny  eyes  — 

The  miser,  with  the  hoard  of  years  — 
The  monarch,  with  his  clanking  ties. 

To  me  the  will — the  power — were  given, 
O'er  plaything  man  to  weave  my  spell, 

And  if  I  bore  him  up  to  heaven, 
'Twas  but  to  hurl  him  down  to  hell. 


THE    TWO    SHADES.  103 

And  if  I  chose  upon  the  rack 
Of  doubt  to  stretch  the  tortured  mind, 

To  turn  Faith's  heavenward  footstep  back, 
Her  hope  despoiled  —  her  vision,  blind  — 

Or  if  on  Virtue's  holy  brow, 
A  wreath  of  scorn  I  sought  to  twine  — 

And  bade  her  minions  mocking  bow, 
With  sweeter  vows  at  pleasure's  shrine  — 

Or  if  I  mirrored  to  the  thought, 
With  glorious  truth  the  charms  of  earth, 

While  yet  the  trusting  fool  I  taught, 
To  scoff  at  Him  who  gave  it  birth  — 

Or  if  I  filled  the  soul  with  light, 
And  bore  its  buoyant  wing  in  air — 

To  plunge  it  down  in  deeper  night, 
And  mock  its  maniac  wanderings  there  — 

I  did  but  wield  the  wand  of  power, 
That  God  intrusted  to  my  clasp, 

And  not,  the  tyrant  of  an  hour  — 
Will  I  resign  it  to  Death's  grasp  ! 

The  despot  with  his  iron  chain, 
In  idle  bonds  the  limbs  may  bind— 

He  who  would  hold  a  sterner  reign, 
Must  twine  the  links  around  the  mind. 

Thus  I  have  thrown  upon  my  race, 
A  chain  that  ages  cannot  rend— 

And  mocking  Harold  stays  to  trace, 
The  slaves  that  to  my  sceptre  bend." 


I  SAW  a  child  some  four  years  old, 

Along  a  meadow  stray  ; 
Alone  she  went — unchecked  —  untold  — 

Her  home  not  far  away. 

She  gazed  around  on  earth  and  sky  — 
Now  paused,  and  now  proceeded  ; 

Hill,  valley,  wood,  —  she  passed  them  by, 
Unmarked,  perchance  imheeded. 

And  now  gay  groups  of  roses  bright, 
In  circling  thickets  bound  her— 

Yet  on  she  went  with  footsteps  light, 
Still  gazing  all  around  her. 

And  now  she  paused,  and  now  she  stooped, 

And  plucked  a  little  flower— 
A  simple  daisy  'twas,  that  drooped 

Within  a  rosy  bower. 


THE  TEACHER'S  LESSON.  105 

The  child  did  kiss  the  little  gem, 

And  to  her  bosom  pressed  it ; 
And  there  she  placed  the  fragile  stem, 

And  with  soft  words  caressed  it. 

« 
I  love  to  read  a  lesson  true, 

From  nature's  open  book' — 
And  oft  I  learn  a  lesson  new, 
From  childhood's  careless  look. 

Children  are  simple — loving — true; 

'Tis  Heaven  that  made  them  so  ; 
And  would  you  teach  them — be  so  too  — 

And  stoop  to  what  they  know. 

Begin  with  simple  lessons — things 

On  which  they  love  to  look : 
Flowers,  pebbles,  insects,  birds  on  wings— 

These  are  God's  spelling-book. 

And  children  know  His  A,  B,  C, 

As  bees  where  flowers  are  set : 
"Would'st  thou  a  skilful  teacher  be  ?— 

Learn,  then,  this  alphabet. 

From  leaf  to  leaf,  from  page  to  page, 

Guide  thou  thy  pupil's  look, 
And  when  he  says,  with  aspect  sage, 

"  Who  made  this  wondrous  book?" 


106  THE  TEACHER'S  LESSON. 

Point  thou  with,  reverent  gaze  to  heaven, 
And  kneel  in  earnest  prayer, 

That  lessons  thou  hast  humbly  given, 
May  lead  thy  pupil  there. 


LIFE  is  a  journey,  and  its  fairest  flowers 

Lie  in  our  path  beneath  pride's  trampling  feet ; 

Oh,  let  us  stoop  to  virtue's  humble  bowers, 

And  gather  those,  which,  faded,  still  are  sweet. 

These  way-side  blossoms  amulets  are  of  price ; 

They  lead  to  pleasure,  yet  from  dangers  warn  ;  — 
Turn  toil  to  bliss,  this  earth  to  Paradise, 

And  sunset  death  to  heaven's  eternal  morn. 

A  good  deed  done  hath  memory's  blest  perfume,  • — 
A  day  of  self-forgetfulness,  all  given 

To  holy  charity,  hath  perennial  bloom 

That  goes,  undrooping,  up  from  earth  to  heaven. 

Forgiveness,  too,  will  flourish  in  the  skies  — 
Justice,  transplanted  thither,  yields  fair  fruit ; 

And  if  repentance,  borne  to  heaven,  dies, 
'Tis  that  no  tears  are  there  to  wet  its  root. 


€n  a  Info]  injjn  jfni  ten  Staging. 

THE  spirit-harp  within  the  breast 
A  spirit's  touch  alone  can  know, — 

Yet  thine  the  power  to  wake  its  rest, 
And  bid  its  echoing  numbers  flow. 

Yes,  —  and  thy  minstrel  art  the  while, 
Can  blend  the  tones  of  weal  and  wo, 

So  archly,  that  the  heart  may  smile, 

Though  bright,  unbidden  tear-drops  flow. 

And  thus  thy  wizard  skill  can  weave 
Music's  soft  twilight  o'er  the  breast, 

As  mingling  day  and  night,  at  eve, 
Kobe  the  far  purpling  hills  for  rest. 

Thy  voice  is  treasured  in  my  soul, 
And  echoing  memory  shall  prolong 

Those  woman  tones,  whose  sweet  control 
Melts  joy  and  sorrow  into  song. 


TO   A  LADY  WHO   HAD   BEEN  SINGING.  109 

The  tinted  sea-shell,  borne  away 

Far  from  the  ocean's  pebbly  shore, 
Still  loves  to  hum  the  choral  lay, 

The  whispering  mermaid  taught  of  yore. 

The  hollow  cave,  that  once  hath  known 
Echo's  lone  voice,  can  ne'er  forget — 

But  gives — though  parting  years  have  flown— 
The  wild  responsive  cadence  yet. 

So  shall  thy  plaintive  melody, 

Undying,  linger  in  my  heart, 
Till  the  last  string  of  memory, 

By  death's  chill  finger  struck,  shall  part  1 


itot. 


OH  think  not  with  love's  soft  token, 
Or  music  my  heart  to  thrill  — 
For  its  strings  —  its  strings  are  broken, 
And  the  chords  would  fain  be  still  ! 

Oh  think  not  to  waken  the  measure 
Of  joy  on  a  ruined  lute  — 
Think  not  to  waken  pleasure, 
Where  grief  sits  mourning  and  mute. 

The  pearls  that  gleam  in  the  billow, 
But  darken  the  gloom  of  the  deep  — 
And  laughter  plants  the  pillow 
With  thorns,  where  sorrow  would  sleep. 

The  gems  that  gleam  on  the  ringer 
Of  her  who  is  sleeping  and  cold, 
But  wring  the  hearts  that  linger, 
And  dream  of  the  love  they  told. 

My  bosom  is  but  a  grave, 
My  breast  a  voiceless  choir  — 
Speak  not  to  the  echoless  cave, 
Touch  not  the  broken  lyre  ! 


«te  #ra  of  tte 

r  r 

*  i- 

THE  cannon  is  mute  and  the  sword  in  its  sheath  — 
Uncrimsoned  the  banner  floats  joyous  and  fair  : 
Yet  beauty  is  twining  an  evergreen  wreath, 
And  the  voice  of  the  minstrel  is  heard  on  the  air. 
Are  these  for  the  glory  encircling  a  crown  — 
A  phantom  evoked  but  by  tyranny's  breath  ? 
Are  these  for  the  conqueror's  vaunted  renown  — 
All  ghastly  with  gore,  and  all  tainted  with  death  ? 
Bright  Star  of  the  West — broad  Land  of  the  Free, 
The  wreath  and  the  anthem  are  woven  for  thee  ! 

ii. 

When  Tyranny  came,  his  fierce  lions  aloft 

Told  the  instinct  that  burned  in  his  cohorts  of  mail  — 

But  our  eagles  swooped  down,  and  the  battle-field  oft, 

Was  the  grave  of  the  foeman, — stern,  ghastly  and  pale. 

The  cloud  of  the  strife  rolled  darkly  away  — 

And  the  carnage-fed  wolves  slunk  back  to  their  den  — 

While  Peace  shone  around  like  the  god  of  the  day, 

And  shed  her  blest  light  on  the  children  of  men. 


112  THE  STAR  OF  THE  WEST. 

Bright  Star  of  the  West— broad  Land  of  the  Free 
The  wreath  and  the  anthem  are  woven  for  thee  ! 


III. 

Thus  Liberty  dawned  from  the  midnight  of  years  ; 
And  here  rose  her  altar.     Oh  kneel  at  her  shrine  ! 
Her  blessings  unnumbered — ye  children  W  tears, 
Whate'er  be  thy  Fatherland — lo  they  are  thine  ! 
In  faith  and  in  joy,  let  us  cherish  the  light, 
That  comes  like  the  sunshine  all  warm  from  above, 
For  thus  shall  the  Demons  that  sprung  from  the  night 
Of  the  Past  fade  away  in  the  noontide  of  love. 
Bright  Star  of  the  West — broad  Land  of  the  Free, 
The  wreath  and  the  anthem  are  woven  for  thee ! 

IV. 

Stern  Seer  of  the  future,  thy  curtain  unroll, 
And  show  to  long  ages  our  empire  of  peace  — 
Where  man  never  bent  to  the  despot's  control, 
And  the  spirit  of  liberty  never  shall  cease. 
Our  Stars  and  our  Stripes  'mid  battle's  loud  thunder, 
Were  bound  by  our  sires  in  the  wedlock  of  love — 
Oh  !  ne'er  shall  the  spirit  of  strife  put  asunder, 
The  UNION  thus  hallowed  by  spirits  above. 
Bright  Star  of  the  West — broad  Land  of  the  Free, 
The  wreath  and  the  anthem  are  woven  for  thee  I 


(Dutraat. 


i. 

• 

FAR,  far  away,  where  sunsets  weave 
Their  golden  tissues  o'er  the  scene, 

And  distant  glaciers,  dimly  heave, 
Like  trailing  ghosts,  their  peaks  between 

Where,  at  the  Rocky  Mountain's  base, 
Arkansas,  yet  an  infant,  lingers, 


114  THE   OUTCAST. 

A  while  the  drifting  leaves  to  chase, 
Like  laughing  youth,  with  playful  fingers — 

There  Nature,  in  her  childhood,  wrought 
'Mid  rock  and  rill,  with  leaf  and  flower, 

A  vale  more  beautiful  than  thought 
E'er  gave  to  favored  fairy's  bower : 

And  in  that  hidden  hermitage, 
Of  forest,  river,  lake,  and  dell, — 

While  Time  himself  grew  gray  and  sage, 
The  lone  Enchantress  loved  to  dwell. 

ii. 

Ages  have  flown,  —  the  vagrant  gales 
Have  swept  that  lonely  land  ;  the  flowers 

Have  nodded  to  the  breeze  ;  the  vales, 
Long,  long,  have  sheltered  in  their  bowers, 

The  forest  minstrels  ;  and  the  race 
Of  mastodons  hath  come  and  gone  ; 

And  with  the  stream  of  time,  the  chase 
Of  bubbling  life  hath  swept  the  lawn, 

Unmarked,  save  that  the  bedded  clay, 
Tells  where  some  giant  sleeper  lies ; 

And  wrinkled  cliffs,  tottering  and  gray, 
Whisper  of  crumbled  centuries. 

Yet  there  the  valley  smiles  ;  the  tomb 
Of  ages  is  a  garden  gay, 

And  wild  flowers  freshen  in  their  bloom, 
As  from  the  sod  they  drink  decay. 


THE   OUTCAST.  115 

And  creeping  things  of  every  hue, 
Dwell  in  this  savage  Eden-land, 

And  all  around  it  blushes  new, 
As  when  it  rose  at  God's  command. 

Untouched  by  man,  the  forests  wave, 
The  floods  pour  by,  the  torrents  fall, 

And  shelving  cliff  and  shadowy  cave, 
Hang  as  bold  nature  hung  them  all ! 

The  hunter's  wandering  foot  hath  wound, 
To  this  far  scene,  perchance  like  mine, 

And  there  a  Forest  Dreamer  found, 
Who  walks  the  dell  with  spectral  mien. 

Youthful  his  brow,  his  bearing  high — 
Yet  writhed  his  lip,  and  all  subdued, 

The  fire  that  once  hath  lit  his  eye. 
Wayward  and  sullen  ofb  his  mood  ; 

But  he  perchance  may  deign  to  tell, 
As  he  hath  told  to  me,  his  tale, 

In  words  like  these,  — while  o'er  the  dell, 
The  autumn  twilight  wove  its  veil. 

in. 

"  Stranger !  these  woods  are  wild  and  drear ; 
These  tangled  paths  are  rough  and  lone  ; 

These  dells  are  full  of  things  of  fear, 
And  should  be  rather  shunned  than  known. 

Then  turn  thy  truant  foot  away, 
And  seek  afar  the  cultured  glade, 


116  THE    OUTCAST. 

Nor  dare  with  reckless  step  to  stray, 
'Mid  these  lone  realms  of  fear  and  shade ! 

You  go  not,  and  you  seek  to  hear, 
Why  one  like  me  should  idly  roam, 

'Mid  scenes  like  these,  so  dark,  so  drear— 
These  rocks  my  bed,  these  woods  my  home  ? 

IV. 

"  One  crime  hath  twined  with  serpent  coil 
Around  my  heart  its  fatal  fold  ; 

And  though  my  struggling  bosom  toil, 
To  heave  the  monster  from  its  hold  — 

It  will  not  from  its  victim  part. 
By  day  or  night,  in  down  or  dell, 

Where'er  I  roam,  still,  still  my  heart 
Is  pressed  by  that  sad  serpent  spell. 

Aye,  as  the  strangling  boa  clings 
Around  his  prey  with  fatal  grasp, 

And  as  he  feels  each  struggle,  wrings 
His  victim  with  a  closer  clasp  ; 

Nor  yet  till  every  pulse  is  dumb, 
And  every  fluttering  spasm  o'er, 

Eeleases,  what,  in  death  o'ercome, 
Can  strive  or  struggle  now  no  more  ; 

So  is  my  wrestling  spirit  wrung, 
By  that  one  deep  and  deadly  sin, 

That  will  not,  while  I  live,  be  flung, 
From  its  sad  work  of  woe  within. 


THE   OUTCAST.  117 

V. 

"  My  native  hills  are  far  away, 
Beneath,  a  soft  and  sunny  sky ; 

Green  as  the  sea,  the  forests  play, 
'Mid  the  fresh  winds  that  sweep  them  by. 


I  loved  those  hills,  I  loved  the  flowers, 
That  dashed  with  gems  their  sunny  swells, 

And  oft  I  fondly  dreamed  for  hours, 
By  streams  within  those  mountain  dells. 

I  loved  the  wood — each  tree  and  leaf, 
In  breeze  or  blast,  to  me  was  fair, 

And  if  my  heart  was  touched  with  grief, 
I  always  found  a  solace  there. 

My  parents  slumbered  in  the  tomb ; 
But  thrilling  thoughts  of  them  came  back, 

And  seemed  within  my  breast  to  bloom, 
As  lone  I  ranged  the  forest  track. 
10 


118  THE  OUTCAST. 

The  wild  flowers  rose  beneath  mj  feet, 
Like  memories  dear  of  those  who  slept, 

And  all  around  to  me  was  sweet, 
Although,  perchance,  I  sometimes  wept. 

I  wept,  but  not,  oh  not  in  sadness, 
And  those  bright  tears  I  would  not  smother, 

For  less  they  flowed  in  grief  than  gladness, 
So  blest  the  memory  of  my  mother. 

And  she  was  linked,  I  know  not  why, 
With  leaves  and  flowers,  and  landscapes  fair, 

And  all  beneath  the  bending  sky, 
As  if  she  still  were  with  me  there. 

The  echo  bursting  from  the  dell, 
Eecalled  her  song  beside  my  bed ; 

The  hill-side  with  its  sunny  swell, 
Her  bosom-pillow  for  my  head. 

The  breathing  lake  at  even-tide, 
When  o'er  it  fell  the  down  of  night, 

Seemed  the  sweet  heaven,  which  by  her  side, 
I  found  in  childhood's  dreams  of  light : 

And  morning,  as  it  brightly  broke, 
And  blessed  the  hills  with  joyous  dyes, 

Was  like  her  look,  when  first  I  woke, 
And  found  her  gazing  in  my  eyes. 

VI. 

"  Nature  became  my  idol ;  wood, 
Wave,  wilderness,  —  I  loved  them  all ; 


THE   OUTCAST.  119 

I  loved  the  forest  and  the  solitude, 
That  brooded  o'er  the  waterfall,— 

I  loved  the  autumn  winds  that  flew 
Between  the  swaying  boughs  at  night, 

And  from  their  whispers  fondly  drew 
Wild  woven  dreams  of  lone  delight. 

I  loved  the  stars,  and  musing  sought 
To  read  them  in  their  depths  of  blue  — 

My  fancy  spread  her  sail  of  thought, 
And  o'er  that  sea  of  azure  flew. 

Hovering  in  those  blest  paths  afar, 
The  wheeling  planets  seem  to  trace, 

My  spirit  found  some  islet-star, 
And  chose  it  for  its  dwelling-place. 

I  loved  the  morn,  and  ere  the  lay 
Of  plaintive  meadow-lark  began, 

'Mid  dewy  shrubs  I  tore  my  way, 
Up  the  wild  crag  where  waters  ran. 

I  listened  to  the  babbling  tide, 
And  thought  of  childhood's  merry  morn, — 

I  listened  to  the  bird  that  tried 
Prelusive  airs,  amid  the  thorn. 

And  then  I  went  upon  my  way  ; 
Yet  ere  the  sunrise  kissed  my  cheek, 

I  stood  upon  the  forehead  gray 
Of  some  lone  mountain's  dizzy  peak. 

A  ruddy  light  was  on  the  hilJ, 
But  shadows  in  the  valley  slept ; 


120  THE   OUTCAST. 

A  white  mist  rested  o'er  the  rill, 
And  shivering  leaves  with  tear-drops  wept. 

The  sun  came  up,  and  nature  woke. 
As  from  a  deep  and  sweet  repose  ; 

From  every  bush  soft  music  broke, 
And  blue  wreaths  from  each  chimney  rose. 

From  the  green  vale  that  lay  below. 
Full  many  a  carol  met  my  ear ; 

The  boy  that  drove  the  teeming  cow, 
And  sung  or  whistled  in  his  cheer ; 

The  dog  that  by  his  master's  side, 
Made  the  lone  copse  with  echoes  ring  : 

The  mill  that  whirling  in  the  tide, 
Seemed  with  a  droning  voice  to  sing ; 

The  lowing  herd,  the  bleating  flock, 
And  many  a  far-off  murmuring  wheel ; 

Each  sent  its  music  up  the  rock, 
And  woke  my  bosom's  echoing  peal. 

VII. 

"  And  thus  my  early  hours  went  o'er  : 
Each  scene  and  sound  but  gave  delight : 

Or  if  I  grieved,  'twas  like  the  shower. 
That  comes  in  sunshine,  brief  and  bright. 

My  heart  was  like  the  summer  lake, 
A  mirror  in  some  valley  found, 

Whose  depths  a  mimic  world  can  make, 
More  beautiful  than  that  around. 


THE   OUTCAST.  121 

The  wood,  the  slope,  the  rocky  dell, 
To  others  dear,  were  dearer  yet 

To  me  ;  for  they  would  fondly  dwell 
Mirrored  in  memory  ;  and  set 

In  the  deep  azure  of  my  dreams 
At  night,  how  sweet  they  rose  to  view  ! 

How  soft  the  echo,  and  the  streams, 
How  swift  their  laughing  murmurs  flew  ! 

And  when  the  vision  broke  at  morn, 
The  music  in  my  charmed  ear, 

As  of  some  fairy's  lingering  horn,  — 
My  native  hills,  how  soft,  how  dear ! 

VIII. 

"  So  passed  my  boyhood ;  'twas  a  stream 
Of  frolic  flow,  'mid  Nature's  bowers  ; 

A  ray  of  light — a  golden  dream  — 
A  morning  fair — a  path  of  flowers  ! 

But  now  another  charm  came  o'er  me  : 
The  ocean  I  had  never  seen  ; 

Yet  suddenly  it  rolled  before  me, 
With  all  its  crested  waves  of  green  ! 

Soft  sunny  islands,  far  and  lone, 
Where  the  shy  petrel  builds  her  nest ; 

Deep  coral  caves  to  mermaids  known  — 
These  were  my  visions  bright  and  blest. 

Oh  !  how  I  yearned  to  meet  the  tide, 
And  hear  the  bristling  surges  sweep  ; 
10* 


122  THE   OUTCAST. 

To  stand  the  watery  world  beside, 
And  ponder  o'er  the  glorious  deep  ! 

I  bade  mj  home  adieu,  and  bent 
My  eager  footsteps  toward  the  shore, 

And  soon  my  native  hills  were  blent, 
With  the  pale  sky  that  arched  them  o'er. 

Four  days  were  passed,  and  now  I  stood 
Upon  a  rock  that  walled  the  deep  : 

Before  me  rolled  the  boundless  flood, 
A  glorious  dreamer  in  its  sleep. 

'Twas  summer  morn,  and  bright  as  heaven  ; 
And  though  I  wept,  I  was  not  sad, 

For  tears,  thou  knowest,  are  often  given 
When  the  o'erflowing  heart  is  glad. 
Long,  long  I  watched  the  waves,  whose  whirls 

Leaped  up  the  rocks,  their  brows  to  kiss, 
And  dallied  with  the  sea-weed  curls, 

That  stooped  and  met,  as  if  in  bliss. 
Long,  long  I  listened  to  the  peal, 

That  whispered  from  the  pebbly  shore, 
And  like  a  spirit  seemed  to  steal 

In  music  to  my  bosom's  core. 
And  now  I  looked  afar,  and  thought 

The  sea  a  glad  and  glorious  thing ; 
And  fancy  to  my  bosom  brought 

Wild  dreams  upon  her  wizard  wing — 
Her  wing  that  stretched  o'er  spreading  waves, 

And  chased  the  far-oif  flashing  ray, 


THE   OUTCAST.  123 

Or  hovering  deep  in  twilight  caves, 
Caught  the  lone  mermaid  at  her  play. 

IX. 

"  And  thus  the  sunny  day  went  by, 
And  night  came  brooding  o'er  the  seas ; 

A  thick  cloud  swathed  the  distant  sky, 
And  hollow  murmurs  filled  the  breeze. 

The  white  gull  screaming,  left  the  rock, 
And  seaward  bent  its  glancing  wing, 

While  heavy  waves,  with  measured  shock, 
Made  the  dun  cliff  with  echoes  ring. 

How  changed  the  scene  !     The  glassy  deep 
That  slumbered  in  its  resting-place, 

And  seeming  in  its  morning  sleep 
To  woo  me  to  its  soft  embrace, 

Now  wakened,  was  a  fearful  thing, — 
A  giant  with  a  scowling  form, 

Who  from  his  bosom  seemed  to  fling 
The  blackened  billows  to  the  storm. 

The  wailing  winds  in  terror  gushed 
From  the  swart  sky,  and  seemed  to  lash 

The  foaming  waves,  which  madly  rushed 
Toward  the  tall  cliff  with  headlong  dash. 

Upward  the  glittering  spray  was  sent, 
Backward  the  growling  surges  whirled, 

And  splintered  rocks  by  lightnings  rent, 
Down  thundering  midst  the  waves  were  hurled. 


124  THE  OUTCAST. 

I  trembled,  yet  I  would  not  fly  ; 
I  feared,  yet  loved,  the  awful  scene  ; 

And  gazing  on  the  sea  and  sky, 
Spell-bound  I  stood  the  rocks  between. 

x. 

"  'Twas  strange  that  I,  a  mountain  boy, 
A  lover  of  green  fields  and  flowers, — 

One,  who  with  laughing  rills  could  toy, 
And  hold  companionship  for  hours, 

With  leaves  that  whispered  low  at  night, 
Or  fountains  bubbling  from  their  springs, 

Or  summer  winds,  whose  downy  flight, 
Seemed  but  the  sweep  of  angel  wings  : — 

'Twas  strange  that  I  should  love  the  clash 
Of  ocean  in  its  maddest  hour, 

And  joy  to  see  the  billows  dash 
O'er  the  rent  cliff  with  fearful  power. 

'Twas  strange, — but  I  was  nature's  own, 
Unchecked,  untutored ;  in  my  soul 

A  harp  was  set  that  gave  its  tone 
To  every  touch  without  control. 

The  zephyr  stirred  in  childhood  warm, 
Thoughts  like  itself,  as  soft  and  blest ; 

And  the  swift  fingers  of  the  storm 
Woke  its  own  echo  in  my  breast. 

Aye,  and  the  strings  that  else  had  lain 
Untouched,  and  to  myself  unknown, 


THE   OUTCAST.  125 

Within  my  heart,  gave  back  the  strain 
That  o'er  the  sea  and  rock  was  thrown. 

Yes,  and  wild  passions,  which  had  slept 
Within  their  cradle,  as  the  waves 

At  morning  by  the  winds  unswept, 
Kippling  within  their  infant  caves — 

Now,  wakened  into  billows,  rose, 
And  held  communion  with  the  storm  : 

I  saw  the  air  and  ocean  close 
In  deadly  struggle  ;  marked  the  form 

Of  the  dun  cloud  with  misty  wing, 
That  wrestled  with  the  giant  main  ; 

I  saw  the  racing  billows  spring 
Like  lions  leaping  from  the  plain  ; 

I  saw  the  surf  that  upward  threw 
Gray  pyramids  of  foam  to  heaven  ; 

I  heard  the  battle-cry  that  flew 
Along  the  cliff,  as  though  t'were  given 

To  cheer  the  elemental  war ; 
I  heard  the  wild  bird  screaming  near ; 

I  felt  the  rock  beneath  me  jar, 
As  if  the  granite  thrilled  with  fear  ; 

I  saw,  I  heard,  — yet  in  my  heart 
The  cloud,  the  cliff,  the  billow  seem'ed 

As  of  myself  an  imaged  part,— 
Things  I  had  seen,  or  oft  had  dreamed  ; 

And  in  my  ear,  the  thundering  tide 
Was  music,  and  the  ocean's  moan 


126  THE   OUTCAST. 

An  echo  of  my  spirit,  wide 
As  the  wave,  and  stormy  as  its  own. 


XI. 

"  So  passed  my  morning  dreams  away, 
Like  birds  that  shun  a  wintry  cloud, 

And  phantom  visions,  grim  and  gray, 
Came  mist-like  from  the  watery  shroud : 

Prophetic  visions  of  the  deep, 
Emblems  of  those  within  the  breast, 

Which,  summoned  from  their  shadowy  sleep, 
Kide  on  the  storm  by  passion  pressed  ! 

In  ghastly  shapes  they  rose  to  view, 
All  gibbering  from  their  crystal  caves, 

As  if  some  horrid  mirth  they  drew 
From  the  wild  uproar  of  the  waves. 

With  beckoning  hands  they  seemed  to  urge 
My  footsteps  down  the  dizzy  way, 

To  join  their  train  upon  the  surge, 
And  dance  with  them  amidst  the  spray  : 

And  such  the  madness  of  my  brain, 
That  I  was  fain  to  seek  the  throng ; 

To  meet  and  mingle  on  the  main, 
With  theit  mad  revelry  and  song. 

One  step,  and  down  the  dizzy  cliff, 
My  form  had  to  the  waters  swung, 

But  gliding  in  a  wreathy  skiff, 
That  o'er  the  crested  billows  hung, 


THE   OUTCAST.  127 

A  white  form  like  my  mother  seemed 
To  shine  a  moment  on  my  eye;— 

With  warning  look  the  vision  gleamed, 
Then  vanished  upward  to  the  sky  ! 

XII. 

11 1  left  the  thundering  tide,  and  sought 
Once  more  the  mountain  and  the  stream  ; 

But  long  the  wrestling  ocean  wrought 
"Within  my  bosom  :  as  a  dream 

My  boyhood  vanished,  and  I  woke 
Startled  to  manhood's  early  morn ; 

No  father's  hand  my  pride  to  yoke, 
No  mother's  angel  voice  to  warn. 

No,  —  and  the  gentle  vision,  lost, 
That  once  could  curb  my  wayward  will, 

And  lull  my  bosom  passion-tossed, 
With  one  soft  whisper,  '  Peace,  be  still  !'• — 

That  vision,  spurned  by  manhood's  pride, 
Came  down  from  heaven  to  me  no  more, 

And  I  was  launched  without  a  guide, 
To  be  a  wreck  on  passion's  shore. 

Alas  !  the  giddy  bark  at  sea, 
'Mid  waves  that  woo  it  down,  to  death, 

From  helm  and  compass  wafted  free, 
The  toy  of  every  tempest's  breath,  — 

Is  but  a  type  of  him  who  goes, 
Trusting  to  nature,  on  the  tide 


128  THE   OUTCAST. 

Of  life,  where  breezy  passion  blows, 
To  whelm  the  adventurer  in  his  pride. 

Yes,  for  the  smoothest  lake  hath  waves 
Within  its  bosom,  which  will  rise 

And  revel  when  the  tempest  raves  ; 
The  cloud  will  come  o'er  gentlest  skies ; 

And  not  a  favored  spot  on  earth, 
The  furrowing  ploughman  finds,  but  there 

The  rank  and  ready  weeds  have  birth, 
Sown  by  the  winds  to  mock  his  care. 

'Tis  thus  with  every  human  heart ; 
The  seeds  of  ill  are  scattered  wide, 

And  flaunting  flowers  of  vice  will  start 
Thick  o'er  the  soil  they  seek  to  hide. 

Aye,  and  the  gentleness  of  youth, 
That  seems  some  hill-side  sown  with  flowers, 

Odorous,  as  if  with  budding  truth, 
Shoots  into  wild  fantastic  bowers. 

The  spark  for  ever  tends  to  flame  ; 
The  ray  that  quivers  in  the  plash 

Of  yonder  river,  is  the  same 
That  feeds  the  lightning's  ruddy  flash. 

The  summer  breeze  that  fans  the  rose, 
Or  eddies  down  some  flowery  path, 

Is  but  the  infant  gale  that  blows 
To-morrow  with  the  whirlwind's  wrath. 

And  He  alone,  who  wields  the  storm, 
And  bids  the  arrowy  lightning  play, 


THE    OUTCAST.  129 

Can  guide  the  heart,  when  wild  and  warm, 
It  springs  on  passion's  wing  away  ! 

One  angel  minister  is  sent, 
To  guard  and  guide  us  to  the  sky, 

And  still  Her  sheltering  wing  is  bent, 
Till  manhood  rudely  throws  it  by. 

Oh,  then  with  mad  disdain  we  spurn 
A  mother's  gentle  teaching  ;  throw 

Her  bosom  from  us,  and  we  burn, 
To  rush  in  freedom,  where  the  glow 

Of  pleasure  lights  the  dancing  wave : 
We  launch  the  bark,  we  woo  the  gale, 

And  reckless  of  the  darkling  grave 
That  yawns  below,  we  speed  the  sail ! 

XIII. 

"  Stranger  !  a  murderer  stands  before  thee  ! 
To  tell  the  guilty  tale  were  vain — 

It  is  enough  —  the  curse  is  o'er  me  — 
And  I  am  but  a  wandering  Cain. 

What  boots  it  that  the  world  bestows, 
For  deeds  of  death  its  honors  dear  ? 

The  blood  that  from  the  duel  flows, 
Will  cry  to  heaven,  and  heaven  will  hear ! 

'  Thou  shalt  not  kill !'     'Twas  deeply  traced 
In  living  stone,  and  thunder- sealed ; 

It  cannot  be  by  man  effaced, 
Or  fashion's  impious  act  repealed. 
11 


130  THE    OUTCAST. 

And  though  we  seek  with  thin  deceit, 
To  blind  Jehovah's  piercing  gaze, 

Call  murder,  honor,  —  can  we  cheat 
The  Omniscient  with  a  specious  phrase  ? 

Alas  !  'tis  adding  crime  to  crime, 
To  veil  the  blood  our  hands  have  spilt, 

And  seek  by  words  of  softening  chime, 
To  lend  blest  virtue's  charm  to  guilt. 

Oh,  no  !  in  vain  the  world  may  give 
The  fearful  deed  a  gentle  name  — 

I  slew  my  friend,  and  now  I  live 
To  feel  perdition's  glowing  flame. 

His  missile  cut  the  upward  air — 
Mine,  winged  with  murder  won  its  way, 

Straight  to  his  manly  bosom,  —  there 
He  fell,  unconscious  as  the  clay  ! 

One  thrill  of  triumph  through  me  swept,  — 
But,  as  I  gazed  upon  his  brow, 

A  chilling  horror  o'er  me  crept,  — 
And  I  am  what  thou  seest  now ! 

XIV. 

"  Stranger, — thy  bosom  cannot  know 
The  desolation  of  the  soul, 

When  the  rough  gale  hath  ceased  to  blow, 
Yet  o'er  it  bids  the  billow  roll. 

A  helmless  wreck  upon  the  tide  — 
An  earthquake's  ruin  wrapped  in  gloom  — 


THE    OUTCAST. 


131 


A  gnarled  oak  blasted  in  its  pride  — 
Are  feeble  emblems  of  my  doom. 

There  is  a  tongue  in  every  leaf, 
A  sigh  in  every  tossing  tree  — 

A  murmur  in  each  wave ;  of  grief 
They  whisper,  and  they  speak  to  me. 

Nature  hath  many  voices  —  strings 
Of  varied  melody  :  and  oft 

Lone  spirits  come  on  breezy  wings, 
To  wake  their  music  sad  or  soft. 

But  in  the  wilderness,  where  Heaven 
Is  the  wrapt  listener,  the  tone 

Is  ever  mournful :  there  is  given, 
A  chorus  for  the  skies,  alone. 

At  night,  when  the  pale  moonlight  falls 


O'er  prairies, "sleeping  like  a  grave, 

And  glorious  through  these  mountain  halls, 
Pours  in  a  flood  its  silvery  wave  — 


132  THE    OUTCAST. 

I  climb  the  cliff,  and  hear  the  song7 
That  o'er  the  breast  of  stillness  steals  : 

I  hear  the  cataract  thundering  strong 
From  far  ;  I  hear  the  wave  that  peals 

Along  the  lone  lake's  pebbly  shore  ; 
I  hear  the  sweeping  gust  that  weaves 

The  tree  tops,  and  the  winds  that  pour 
In  rippling  lapses  through  the  leaves. 

And  as  the  diapason  sweeps 
Across  the  breast  of  night,  the  moan 

Of  wolves  upon  the  spirit  creeps, 
Lending  the  hymn  a  wilder  tone. 

The  panther's  wail,  the  owlet's  scream, 
The  whippoorwill's  complaining  song, 

Blend  with  the  cataract's  solemn  theme, 
And  the  wild  cadences  prolong. 

And  often  when  the  heart  is  chilled 
By  the  deep  harmony,  the  note 

Of  some  light-hearted  bird  is  trilled 
Upon  the  breeze.  How  sweet  its*  throat ! 

Yet,  as  a  gem  upon  the  finger 
Of  a  pale  corse,  deepens  the  gloom, 

By  its  bright  rays  that  laugh  and  linger 
In  the  dread  bosom  of  the  tomb  ; 

So  doth  the  note  of  that  wild  bird, 
Sadden  the  anthem  of  the  hills, 

And  my  hushed  bosom,  spirit-stirred, 
With  lonelier  desolation  thrills. 


THE    OUTCAST.  133 


XV. 

u  You  bid  me  pray  ?  aye,  I  have  prayed  ! 
Each  cliff  and  cave,  each  rock  and  glen, 

Have  heard  my  ardent  lips  invade 
The  ear  of  Heaven,  —  again,  again. 

And  in  the  secret  hour  of  night, 
When  all-revealing  darkness  brings 

Its  brighter  world  than  this  of  light  - — 
My  spirit,  borne  on  wizard  wings, 

Hath  won  its  upward  way  afar, 
And  ranged  the  shoreless  sea  of  dreams— 

Hath  touched  at  many  a  wheeling  star 
That  shines  beyond  these  solar  beams  ; 

And  on  the  trackless  deep  of  thought, 
Like  Him,  who  found  this  Western  World, 

'Mid  doubt  and  storm  my  passage  wrought, 
Till  weary  fancy's  wing  was  furled  — 

And,  as  the  sky-bent  eagle,  borne 
Down  by  the  lightning  blast  of  heaven, 

So  was  my  outcast  spirit  torn, 
And  backward  to  its  dwelling  driven. 

Yet  not  in  vain,  perchance,  my  tears, 
My  penitence,  my  patient  prayer, 

For,  softened  with  the  flow  of  years, 
My  breast  is  lightened  of  its  care. 

And  once  at  night  when  meteors  flew 
Down  on  their  glittering  wings  from  heaven, 
11* 


134  THE    OUTCAST. 

My  mother's  spirit  met  my  view, 
Whispering  of  peace  and  sin  forgiven  ! 

Yet,  though  my  lip  to  thee  confess, 
My  wrestling  bosom's  sweet  relief, 

Think  not  I  count  my  crime  the  less, 
That  pitying  Heaven  hath  soothed  my  grief. 

No — yon  wild  rose  hath  sweet  perfume 
To  scatter  on  this  desert  air ; 

Yet,  hid  beneath  its  fragrant  bloom, 
Sharp  thorns  are  set,  the  flesh  to  tear. 

And  thus,  repentance,  while  it  brings 
Forgiveness  to  the  broken  heart, 

Still  leaves  contrition's  thousand  stings 

To  waken  sorrow  with  their  smart. 

. 

XVI. 

"  Such  is  my  story  —  this  my  home, — 
And  I  the  monarch  of  the  dell  — 

Above  my  head,  the  forest  dome,  — 
Around,  the  battlements  that  swell 

To  heaven,  and  make  my  castle  strong. 
My  messengers  are  winds  that  lave 

Far  reedy  shores,  and  bring  me  song, 
Blent  with  the  murmurs  of  the  wave. 

And  birds  of  every  rainbow  hue, 
The  antelope,  and  timid  deer, 

The  wild  goat  mingling  with  the  blue 
Of  heaven  on  yonder  rock,  are  here. 


THE   OUTCAST.  135 

And  oft  at  morn,  the  mocking-bird 
Doth  greet  me  with  its  sweetest  lay  ; 

The  wood-dove,  where  the  bush  is  stirred, 
Looks  from  its  cover  on  my  way. 

I  would-  not  break  the  spider's  thread,— 
The  buzzing  insect  dances  free  ; 

I  crush  no  toad  beneath  my  tread, — 
The  lizard  crawls  in  liberty  ! 

I  harm  no  living  thing  ;  my  sway 
Of  peace  hath  soothed  the  grumbling  bear,— 

The  wolf  walks  by  in  open  day, 
And  fawns  upon  me  from  his  lair. 

Aye,  and  my  heart  hath  bowed  so  low, 
I  gather  in  this  solitude, 

Joy  from  the  love  that  seems  to  flow 
From  these  brute  tenants  of  the  leafy  wood. 

XVII. 


"  Stranger,  farewell  1  The  deepening  eve  doth  warn, 
And  the  mild  moonlight  beckons  thee  away  ; 

And,  ere  the  lingering  night  shall  melt  to  morn, 
Let  thy  swift  foot  across  the  prairie  stray. 


136  THE   OUTCAST. 

Nay,  tempt  me  not !  for  I  alone  am  cast, 
A  wretch  from  all  I  used  to  grieve  or  bless  ; 

And  doomed  to  wail  and  wander  here  at  last, 
Am  deeply  wedded  to  the  wilderness. 

Thy  hand  again  shall  feel  the  thrilling  grasp 
Of  friendship — and  thine  ear  shall  catch  the  tone 

Of  joyous  kindred  ;  and  thine  arm  shall  clasp, 
Perchance,  some  gentle  bosom  to  thine  own. 

Oh  God  !  'tis  right — for  he  hath  never  torn, 
With  his  own  daring  hand  the  thread  of  life  — 

He  ne'er  hath  stolen  thy  privilege,  or  borne 
A  fellow  mortal  down  in  murderous  strife  ! 

XVIII. 

"  Stranger,  farewell !  these  woods  shall  be  my  home, 
And  here  shall  be  my  grave  !  My  hour  is  brief, 

But  while  it  lasts,  it  is  my  task  to  roam, 
And  read  .of  Heaven  from  nature's  open  leaf. 

And  though  I  wander  from  my  race  away, 
As  some  lone  meteor,  dim  and  distant,  wheels 

In  wintry  banishment,  where  but  a  ray 
Of  kindred  stars  in  timid  twilight  steals  — 

Still  will  I  catch  the  light  that  faintly  falls 
Through  my  leaf-latticed  window  of  the  skies, 

And  I  will  listen  to  the  voice  that  calls 
From  heaven,  where  the  wind  stricken  forest  sighs. 

And  I  will  read  of  dim  Creation's  morn, 
From  the  deep  archives  of  these  mossy  hills  — 


THE   OUTCAST.  137 

On  wings  of  wizard  thought,  my  fancy,  borne 
Back  by  the  whispers  of  these  pouring  rills, 

Shall  read  the  unwritten  record  of  the  land  — 
For  God,  unwitnessed  here  hath  walked  the  dell, 

These  cliffs  have  quivered  at  his  loud  command, 
These  waters  blushed,  where  his  deep  shadow  fell  1 

And  at  his  bidding,  'mid  these  solitudes, 
The  ebb  and  flow  of  life  have  poured  their  waves, 

Till  Time,  the  hoary  sexton  of  these  woods, 
Despairing,  broods  o'er  the  uncounted  graves. 

And  warrior  tribes  have  come  from  some  far  land, 
And  made  these  mountains  echo  with  their  cry  — 

And  they  have  mouldered — and  their  mighty  hand 
Hath  writ  no  record  on  the  earth  or  sky  ! 

And  'mid  the  awful  stillness  of  their  grave, 
The  forest  oaks  have  flourished  ;  and  the  breath 

Of  years  hath  swept  their  races,  wave  on  wave, 
As  ages  fainted  on  the  shores  of  death. 

The  tumbling  cliff  perchance  hath  thundered  deep, 
Like  a  rough  note  of  music  in  the  song 

Of  centuries,  and  the  whirlwind's  crushing  sweep, 
Hath  ploughed  the  forest  with  its  furrows  strong. 

And  though  these  legends,  like  the  eddying  leaves 
Of  autumn,  scattered  by  the  whirlwind's  breath, 

Are  borne  away  where  dim  Oblivion  weaves 
Her  shroud,  within  the  rayless  halls  of  death  ; 

Still  with  a  prophet  gaze  I'll  thread  my  way, 
And  wake  the  giant  spectres  of  the  tomb  ; 


138  THE   OUTCAST. 

With  fancy's  wand  I'll  chase  the  phantoms  gray, 
And  burst  the  shadowy  seal  that  shrouds  their  doom. 

Thus  shall  the  past  its  misty  lore  unfold, 
And  bid  my  soul  on  nature's  ladder  rise, 

Till  I  shall  meet  some  clasping  hand,  whose  hold 
Shall  draw  my  homesick  spirit  to  the  skies. 

XIX. 

"  Farewell !  the  thread  of  sympathy  that  tied 
My  heart  to  man  is  sundered,  and  I  go 

To  hold  communion  with  the  shades  that  glide, 
Wherever  forests  wave,  or  waters  flow. 

And  when  my  fluttering  heart  shall  faint  and  fail. 
These  limbs  shall  totter  to  some  hollow  cave, 

Where  the  poor  Dreamer's  dream  shall  cease.  The  gale 
Shall  gather  music  from  the  wood  and  wave, 

And  pour  it  in  my  dying  ear  ;  the  wing 
Of  busy  zephyrs  to  the  flowers  shall  go, 

And  from  them  all  their  sweetest  odors  bring, 
To  soothe,  perchance,  their  fainting  lover's  woe. 

My  sinking  soul  shall  catch  the  dreamy  sound 
Of  far-off  waters,  murmuring  to  their  doom, 

And  eddying  winds,  from  distant  mountains  bound, 
Shall  come  to  sing  a  requiem  round  my  tomb. 

The  breeze  shall  o'er  me  weave  a  leafy  shroud, 
And  I  shall  slumber  in  the  shadowy  dell  — 

Till  God  shall  rend  the  spirit's  darkling  cloud,  * 

And  give  it  wings  of  light.     Stranger,  Farewell  P 

• 


(tail  nni  fml, 


WHEN  man  from  Paradise  was  driven, 
And  thorns  around  his  pathway  sprung, 
Sweet  Mercy  wandering  there  from  heaven 
Upon  those  thorns  bright  roses  flung. 

Aye,  and  as  Justice  cursed  the  ground, 
She  stole  behind,  unheard,  unseen  — 
And  while  the  curses  fell  around, 
She  scattered  seeds  of  joy  between. 


140  GOOD   AND   EVIL. 

And  thus,  as  evils  sprung  to  light, 
And  spread,  like  weeds,  their  poisons  wide, 
Fresh  healing  plants  came  blooming  bright, 
And  stood,  to  check  them,  side  by  side. 

And  now,  though  Eden  blooms  afar, 
And  man  is  exiled  from  its  bowers, 
Still  mercy  steals  through  bolt  and  bar, 
And  brings  away  its  choicest  flowers. 

The  very  toil,  the  thorns  of  care, 
That  Heaven  in  wrath  for  sin  imposes, 
By  mercy  changed,  no  curses  are — 
One  brings  us  rest,  the  other  roses. 

Thus  joy  is  linked  with  every  woe  — 
Each  cup  of  ill  its  pleasure  brings  ; 
The  rose  is  crushed,  but  then,  you  know, 
The  sweeter  fragrance  from  it  springs. 

If  justice  throw  athwart  our  way, 
A  deepening  eve  of  fear  and  sorrow, 
Hope,  like  the  moon,  reflects  the  ray 
Of  the  bright  sun  that  shines  to-morrow. 

And  mercy  gilds  with  stars  the  night ; 
Sweet  music  plays  through  weeping  willows  ; 
The  blackest  cave  with  gems  is  bright, 
And  pearls  illume  the  ocean  billows. 


GOOD   AND   EVIL.  141 


The  very  grave,  though  clouds  may  rise, 
And  shroud  it  o'er  with  midnight  gloom, 
Unfolds  to  faith  the  deep  blue  skies, 
That  glorious  shine  beyond  the  tomb. 


€{JB  Bintratnttt  f  team. 

ONE  summer  morn,  while  yet  the  thrilling  lay, 
Of  the  dew-loving  lark  was  full  and  strong, 
Trampling  the  wild  flowers  in  my  careless  way, 
Up  the  steep  mountain-side  I  strode  along  — 
My  only  guide,  a  brook  whose  joyous  song, 
Seemed  like  a  boy's  light-hearted  roundelay, 
As  down  it  rushed,  the  leafy  bowers  among, 
Scattering  o'er  bud  and  bloom  its  pearly  spray  — 
A  beauteous  semblance  of  life's  opening  day. 

And  looking  back  to  that  all-gladdening  morn, 
When  I  was  free  and  sportive  as  the  stream — 
When  roses  blushed  with  no  suspected  thorn, 
And  fancy's  sunlight  gilded  every  dream — 
While  hope  yet  shed  its  sweet  delusive  beam, 
And  disappointment  still  delayed  to  warn  — 
With  fond  regret,  I  still  pursued  the  theme  — 
With  clambering  step  still  up  the  steep  was  borne, 
Too  sad  to  smile,  too  pleased  perchance  to  mourn. 


THE   MOUNTAIN   STREAM.  148 

And  now  I  stood  beside  that  rivulet's  spring, 
That  came  unbidden  with  a  bubbling  bound— 
And  stealing  forth,  a  gentle  trembling  thing, 
It  seemed  an  infant  fearing  all  around — 
Yet  clinging  to  its  mother's  breast — the  ground. 
But  soon  it  bolder  grew,  and  with  a  wing 
It  went :  its  carol  was  a  joyous  sound, 
Making  the  silent  woods  responsive  ring, 
And  the  far  forest-echoes,  sighing,  sing. 

And  now  I  stood  upon  the  mountain's  height  — 
Like  a  wide  map,  the  landscape  lay  unrolled— 
There  could  I  trace  that  rivulet's  path  of  light, 
From  the  steep  mountain  to  the  sea  of  gold ; 
Now  leaping  o'er  the  rocks  like  chamois  bold, — 
Now  like  a  crouching  hare  concealed  from  sight, — 
Now  hid  beneath  the  willow's  bowering  fold, 
As  if  they  sought  to  stay  its  arrowy  flight, 
Then  give  it  forth  again  more  swift  and  bright. 

'Twas  changeful — beautiful ;  now  dark,  now  fair — 
A  tale  of  life,  from  childhood  to  the  tomb — 
Its  birth-place  near  the  skies,  in  mountain  air, 
Where  wild  flowers  throw  around  their  sweet  perfume, 
Like  the  blest  thoughts  that  often  brightly  bloom, 
At  home,  beneath  a  mother's  culturing  care  — 
Its  form  now  hid  in  shadows,  such  as  gloom 
Our  downward  way — its  grave  in  ocean,  where 
It  mingles  with  the  wave  —  a  dweller  there  ! 


144  THE    MOUNTAIN    STREAM. 

And  though  that  stream  be  hidden  from  the  view, 
'Tis  yet  preserved  'neath  ocean's  briny  crest : 
That  wide  eternity  of  waves  is  true  — 
And  as  the  planets  anchored  in  their  rest, 
The  sparkling  streamlet  lives  ;  and  while  unblest, 
The  land- wave  stagnant  lingers — there  the  blue 
Tide  holds  the  river  stainless  in  its  breast  — 
An  image  still  of  life,  that  sparkles  through 
The  starry  deep  of  heaven,  for  ever  new. 


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